The Worst (Crawley) Witch
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: To every generation of Crawley women, there is a witch born. Unfortunately, that witch is Sybil, and she is without a doubt, the worst witch the Crawley family has ever seen. All she wanted to was to create a love spell for Edith, and get Sir Anthony to fall in love with her. She didn't mean for the spell to work on his new chauffeur! Or to become Branson's object of affection.
1. Chapter 1

_So here is a story that came to me for October's "Rock the AU" theme, which has a "paranormal" twist. What if Sybil were a witch? Only she's not very good, in fact she's regarded as quite possible THE WORST witch the Crawley family has ever seen. But she tries, and she wants to give each of her sisters a special spell, including a love spell for Edith. The problem? The love spell that was meant for Sir Anthony Strallan ended up being placed on his new driver: Tom Branson. UH OH! This story is pure fantasy fun; it's an odd mix of "The Worst Witch"/"Harry Potter"/"Practical Magic"/and "Downton Abbey"-it doesn't really follow a specific plotline of any of those stories, but it borrows plenty of elements from them! But as I said, this is meant to be a funny fantasy romance, so everything in here about witches comes out of that way of thinking; not to be taken seriously (so if you are wiccan and reading this, I hope you are not offended). _

_This story will be a five-parter, one I hope to update every Thursday during the month of October, all leading up to Halloween! Anyway, I do hope you enjoy it, so far it has been fun to write, and I always look forward to hearing from readers! So here it is, my little S/T contribution to the Halloween season! ENJOY! And thank you for reading!_

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**The Worst (Crawley) Witch**  
_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_Chapter One_

Into every generation of the Crawley family, there is born a witch, and only one witch. So if a Crawley has multiple daughters, only one girl will be a witch, and through her, the magical linage as old as time will be passed. Ultimately what this meant was that the Crawley family was guaranteed to have daughters. And the girl would inherit her powers by the time she turned ten years old. So if a mother did have multiple daughters, she would not know which girl was the next Crawley witch until her tenth birthday. However, that didn't stop mothers and grandmothers from speculating.

Violet Crawley was a Crawley by marriage, yet she might as well have been one by blood based on how proud she was of the Crawley family's magical linage, which was part of the reason why she, also a witch from a noble family, was very pleased when her now late husband, the 4th Earl of Grantham, had selected her to be his bride. After all, there were only a handful of magical noble families in Britain, and any witch who was anyone knew about the Crawleys.

Yet there was a slight problem when it came to her children. She had two, a son and a daughter, and naturally, her daughter Rosamond inherited her powers as was expected. Yet Rosamond had no children, which meant that Violet would have depend on her son, Robert, to pass their heritage to the next generation (and things weren't looking well when he insisted on marrying an American). Yet Cora proved her worth as far as Violet was concerned when her first child was a girl, and a striking girl at that! Mary Crawley encompassed everything a good Crawley witch should be, even at the tender age of infancy. Violet was positive Mary would be the next witch, and so even before Mary's tenth birthday, began to prepare the girl for her magical training, even going so far as to purchase her a cauldron and broomstick.

On the day of Mary's tenth birthday, Violet had prepared a grand party, inviting all of the noblest witches in the land, and decided to be generous and even invite some not-so noble ones (including a distant cousin of hers named Isobel, who, like her, was a witch and had married into the Crawley family)—but alas, when the hour struck, marking the anniversary of Mary's birth…nothing happened. The western wind did not blow from the east, the sun did not eclipse, and the toads did not leave their lily pads to croak a welcoming chorus to their new magical sister. In other words, it was a complete embarrassment for Violet, and may have also been for Mary too, had it not been for Isobel's son, Matthew, who was there to comfort the girl when she ran away to hide, feeling utterly humiliated. Yes, despite Violet's disappointment, it turned out to be a very good day for Mary, for it marked the beginning of her future with the boy who would grow to become the man she would give her heart and hand in marriage to.

But despite this "set back", Violet was not to be deterred. After all, Cora had another daughter, a girl named Edith, who had inherited Rosamond's looks and despite her initial shyness, was a sweet girl and eager to please. Yes, in many ways, Edith was an "improvement" to Mary, simply in the sense that she took everything Violet told her to heart; always listening, never questioning, unless Violet asked her. Surely Edith was the next Crawley witch!

On Edith's tenth birthday, Violet decided not to make the same mistake twice, and so did not throw an elaborate party the way she had for Mary, but she did invite some close friends and neighbors, and oversaw the special cake that was created for the occasion. She even went to London to have a special hat made of the finest spider-silk for her granddaughter. And when the hour struck, Violet held her breath and waited…

…And once again, nothing happened. No wind, no eclipse, no toads; nothing.

This was indeed becoming quite vexing.

But all hope was not lost, so Cora assured her. After all, there was still another girl.

BUT _SYBIL?!_

Violet loved all of her granddaughters dearly, but…Sybil, the _next_ Crawley witch? Surely not. Sybil was not like her two older sisters. She had no sense of refinement! She was always losing her shoes and tearing her stockings (purposefully!) so that she could run through the garden barefoot. She would climb trees and rip her dress, strip down to her undergarments and go swimming in the pond, roll down hills and play in the mud and come home absolutely filthy! The girl was an odd mixture of Earth, Air, Water, and Fire—to put it plainly, she was utter chaos!

And yet she was the one fate had in mind.

Because on her tenth birthday (this time the party was just the Crawley family and only the Crawley family), when the hour struck, Violet groaned as the western wind suddenly shifted and began to blow east, and a shadow passed over the sun, and Mary and Edith screamed as the cake was set upon by an army of toads that seemed to come out of nowhere, croaking a chorus to the laughing birthday girl who danced around them.

Yes, it would appear that Sybil Crawley was to be the next Crawley family witch, whether Violet liked it or not.

"Cheer up, old girl," Isobel chuckled while Carson and the footmen did their best in rounding up the toads. "I have a good feeling about that one."

Violet rolled her eyes. "That makes one of us, at least."

Still, Violet was a Crawley woman, and a witch at that, and Crawley witches were not so easily defeated. So the next day, the cauldron, broomstick, and hat that she had originally purchased for her other two granddaughters, were passed onto Sybil, who also received the ancient Crawley spell book, something that had only been held and opened by Crawley witches.

"Today begins your new life!" Violet firmly spoke, sitting her granddaughter down in the special room that the servants had set up to be Sybil's classroom. "Today you will begin learning everything you need to know about being a witch."

Sybil chewed on her lip and looked out the window longingly at the Downton gardens. "Can we have our lesson outside?" she asked. "It's a beautiful day—"

"No," Violet interrupted. "_Here_ is where your lessons will take place; here is where you will study and learn, _far away_ from the distractions of the outdoors which I know will prove far too tempting to you if we do venture outside!"

Sybil groaned and slumped down in her chair, a large pout forming on her lips. "Being a witch is no fun."

Violet bristled. "Of course it isn't! Being a witch is not about 'frivolity'; you, my dear, come from a long, noble line of the finest witches in Britain—the world, even! Do you not understand how fortunate you are? There are many out there who would willingly remove every lock and strand of hair and go bald for all eternity if it meant they could have your place!"

Sybil scrunched her face up at this and began to wonder if baldness was such a bad fate when compared to being forced to sit in a stuffy classroom with her over-bearing grandmother.

"Now, open the spell book. We'll start with the basics, I think…"

Only it turned out that Sybil needed basics for the basics. She struggled with understanding the ancient languages written in the spell book, as well as differentiating certain plants and herbs for potions (she kept getting witch hazel and wolfs bane mixed up), and when she first attempted to start a fire for her cauldron with just a snap of her fingers…she nearly set the classroom on fire! Yes, this was going to prove to be far more difficult than Violet had ever imagined. And a large bulk of the problem was that she wouldn't be able to observe _all_ of Sybil's education! After all, being the Crawley witch matriarch did mean attending various meetings with the Yorkshire Coven; no, Sybil would require special teachers, hired just to oversee her magical training. And not just teachers, but people who could serve in the house as well; lower-born witches, who Violet had no doubt would give up their broomsticks for a chance to work at Downton and serve under the Crawleys. And she was right (to a point). A new cook by the name of Beryl Patmore would help Sybil with her potions, assisted by Mrs. Patmore's niece, and the new kitchen maid, Daisy, as well as very witchy lady's maid, Miss Sarah O'Brien, who served Cora first and foremost, but who put the fear of God into Sybil if she dared neglect her duties.

As for the special governesses her grandmother had hired, Sybil couldn't stand any of them. They were all stuffy and snobby and seemed more determined to teach Sybil how to be a good, little, proper noble witch, rather than provide her with practical understanding in how to use magic. No, the only "teacher" whom Sybil liked was her cousin Isobel, who certainly had a great deal more patience for her than any of her governesses. But Isobel couldn't be there all the time (she worked as a nurse in Manchester—oh what a wonderful way to use one's magical knowledge and gifts in the art of the healing sciences!) and so Sybil had to make due and endure her grandmother and the people Violet had hired.

…And it wasn't so uncommon that these teachers would become frustrated to the point that they just couldn't stand being there any longer, and walk out without so much as a "by your leave". And naturally, this brought on a great deal of frustration for Violet, who muttered out loud to poor Sybil one day after she had blown a hole in the roof of the house and the walls were splattered with pink slime (that was supposed to be green), "Sybil…how can…I just don't…truly, you are THE WORST witch this family has ever seen!"

She ran from the classroom then, tears streaming down her face, ignoring her grandmother's voice as she called out to her retreating figure. She ran and ran until she was in the Downton gardens, and she didn't stop until she reached the pond where all the toads lived, and dove into its cool waters, not bothering to remove any part of her dress, and she swam to the other side where a willow tree's branches hung low, and once she was convinced she was hidden from view, had a long, proper cry.

…That was where her mother found her.

"Oh Sybil, you mustn't let your grandmother bully you."

She wiped at her nose, not caring if she was getting mud all over her face (she was soaked through anyway). "I hate being a witch! Why was I chosen? I'm horrible at it!"

"Oh my dear, you're not 'horrible'—these things take time!" her mother murmured from the bank near the willow tree's base.

Sybil folded her arms and sulked. "How would you know?"

Cora sighed. "Because, my dear…I was the same way when I was your age."

Sybil's eyes widened. Her mother was a witch!? But…but nothing had ever been said…?

"Why do you think your grandmother tolerates me at all?" Cora chuckled.

"But Mama…" Sybil swam over to the bank where her mother sat. "But…but you've never said anything…I mean, I don't even think I've ever seen you perform a basic spell—"

"No," Cora sighed, shaking her head. "Because my powers, compared to the powers that run in this family, are very weak. I hardly use magic anymore; they seem to have grown weaker and weaker as I get older, so I more or less just not bother, to be honest."

Was she sad? Sybil couldn't tell. She started to wonder if she would be sad, if she were like her mother; her powers growing weaker and weaker with every passing year, rather than stronger and stronger, as her grandmother kept assuring her they would. _"They will grow stronger and you will learn to harness and control them to do your bidding!" _ It seemed impossible to imagine that a day would come when she could do that with her powers. And sometimes…she did miss the days before she knew she had the capability of performing magic, when she could just be a carefree child…although even that was rather unlikely, being the daughter of an earl.

"What I'm saying, Sybil…" Cora murmured, reaching out to stroke her daughter's cheek. "You're twice the little witch I was when I was your age…and you're very young, just discovering the great things you can do! But with time, and study, you will get better! And don't look at your mistakes as moments of failure, but moments of learning!"

Moments of learning. True, she now understood the importance of adding just the right amount of pumpkin seed to a snore-relief charm.

"But Mama..." Sybil murmured, managing to scramble up out of the pond and join her mother on the bank, the toads hopping closer and closer, croaking and looking up at her with sympathy. "What…what if despite all of this, I'm _still_ bad?"

Cora smiled and leaned down to kiss her daughter's brow. "That's impossible, my darling. You can never be 'bad'…_different_, perhaps, but not bad."

Sybil snorted. As far as her grandmother was concerned, it was clear that "different" was "bad". Still, as she gazed up into her mother's kind, blue eyes, the very eyes she had inherited, Sybil felt a soft, calming warmth wash over her, reminding her of one of Mrs. Patmore's delicious cups of comforting hot chocolate. Suddenly, the very taste of that delicious beverage was on her tongue, and Sybil stared up at her mother with wide eyes, while Cora simply nodded her head with a knowing smile. "My powers may be weak, but I still remember a thing or two," her mother winked.

Giggling, the two rose and walked back to the house, hand in hand. Sybil made her apologies to her grandmother for running away, and Violet, while still clearly frustrated by the situation, actually looked apologetic as well, and told Sybil she could take the rest of the afternoon off from her lesson. However, inspired by her mother's words, Sybil surprised her grandmother by telling her that no, she would return to the classroom, go over the spell book, and try to see what it was that she had done wrong and learn from her mistakes. To say that Violet was surprised by her granddaughter's sudden determination was an understatement. However, who was she to argue?

In the end, Violet realized it was pointless giving Sybil these governesses, and with reluctant acceptance, asked Isobel to come and help her with Sybil's magical education, which the woman was willing to do, if, however, a place could be found for her at the cottage hospital in Downton, as Isobel was quite committed to call of nursing.

Violet wondered if Mary or Edith would have been this much trouble? But she kept her opinion to herself, and after a good, long discussion with Dr. Clarkson and her son, made all the proper arrangements for Isobel to come and stay in the village, finding her a position with the hospital, as well as a home at Crawley House.

Mary liked this new arrangement, of course, as it would mean a chance to see Matthew on a much more regular basis, even though at the moment, he was away at school in Manchester. But it was quite clear to everyone, especially to Sybil, how dear their cousin had become to her sister. Sybil sighed and wondered what it was like to fall in love. Would that ever happen to her? Would she ever meet a man like Cousin Matthew? Would a man ever look at her the way Cousin Matthew gazed at Mary? Sybil sighed and tried to focus her attention back on her studies and away from her daydreams about the future and what it may contain for her and her family.

The years passed and Sybil continued to work hard in her studies, although if truth be told, she still wasn't improving as well as her grandmother had hoped. For example, she spent more time falling off her broomstick, rather than flying on it properly. At least she could light her cauldron now without blowing a hole through the wall, but even with the most basic of spells, Sybil continued to struggle.

One day, her grandmother approached her, looking very apprehensive. "Sybil, dear, you aware that you turn eighteen this June, yes?"

Sybil looked up from the spell book and nodded her head, finding the question rather confusing. Of course she knew when her birthday was!

"There's something we haven't discussed that you should know," Violet began. "Witches are different from non-witches."

Sybil didn't quite see how this was anything new, but chose to keep her lips sealed and let her grandmother explain.

"Girls like Mary and Edith have seasons, and as is tradition for such girls, those seasons take place when they turn eighteen. But you my dear, because you are a witch, will _not_ have a season like Mary and Edith."

Sybil's eyes went wide at this revelation. She was not to have a season? She couldn't deny that this actually delighted her! Not that she disliked balls, but…well, she did find them rather tedious and the conversation dull. Even the few balls and parties she had attended that were strictly for "witches only", that the Yorkshire Coven would throw at various autumn and spring harvest moons, were all rather boring. And because of her age, she wasn't permitted to dance (which was probably for the best, because it was a known fact that Sybil had two left feet).

"Every year, on All Hallows Eve, all the covens of Britain gather for a masked ball. Normally it is celebrated in London, but sometimes it moves from place to place," Violet waved her hand, clearly not seeing the tiny detail as being all that important. "And when a witch turns twenty-one, _that_ is when she will come out to society."

Sybil's brow furrowed at this information. "So…a non-witch has her debut at eighteen, where a witch must wait until she is twenty-one?"

Violet nodded.

"Why?"

Violet rolled her eyes. "Oh Sybil, must you ask questions? Does it matter? That's simply the way it has always been!"

She hated that answer; it was the same answer Violet had given her when Sybil had adopted Alfred, the gangly ginger cat with a crooked tail to be her companion, rather than the traditional black. When she questioned her grandmother as to why a witch's cat must be black, she received the same answer she had just received now; as far as her grandmother was concerned, "because that's the way it has always been" was good enough.

"The reason I'm telling you, my dear, is because you have an important task to accomplish before you turn twenty-one…and judging from how long it took you to master that water-boiling charm," Violet groaned, remembering how Sybil had flooded the kitchens. "I think it's best that you start studying now."

It was then that Sybil learned that all Crawley witches were responsible for "granting a spell" to her non-magical sisters, if she had any. And since Sybil had two, she would need to create, perform, and give those very spells to both Mary and Edith in the matter of four years…and yes, as much as she hated to admit it, judging from what her grandmother had said, she would probably need all four of those years to do it.

Also, they had to be spells given with a "selfless heart". Well, that shouldn't be too challenging, Isobel had told her. "Sybil has one of the biggest hearts I know," her cousin declared. But they also needed to be personal spells, things that neither sister was necessarily "expecting" to be given; things that they wanted, but would never dream of asking for, which meant that Sybil needed to be observant.

Well, that shouldn't be too difficult, Sybil thought. She loved her sisters very much, and based on her observations felt she had a fairly good idea as to what they wanted, but would never dream of asking.

For Mary, Sybil knew that her sister was conflicted by following her dream, and following her heart. Mary was the eldest Crawley, and even though she was born a girl and it was of course known knowledge that girls could not inherit, she did feel as if she were the rightful heir to Downton. But alas, the law was the law, which meant that when their father died, Downton and everything that went with the earldom would go to his heir…their cousin, Patrick Crawley.

Sybil couldn't stand their cousin Patrick, and neither could Mary. He was very arrogant, and very snobbish. Because he was the heir, he felt that gave him the right to walk about Downton whenever he visited and order the servants right, left, and center to "do his bidding", because he was the future earl. And if Mary wanted to have any sort of possession on the estate (and to be named Countess of Grantham) well, there was only one way to achieve that, and Mary had muttered to Sybil one evening, "over my dead body".

Yes, thank heaven Mary wasn't so attached to the idea of having to be Countess of Grantham that she was willing to set aside her heart's desire and settle into a marriage with a man she would despise, rather than a man she truly loved. But still, Sybil wished there was a way to give her sister both. And she truly believed that Matthew and Mary would run Downton far better than Patrick ever could.

As for Edith, well, that was a little more complicated.

Edith was the true romantic in the family. She loved fairy tales and as a child, whenever she played with her dolls, she was always pretending to be vicar so she could marry them. And Edith had fallen head over heels for their cousin Patrick, much to Sybil and Mary's horror. Indeed, Edith was like Patrick's shadow, following him around the estate, willing to do anything to make him happy, and Patrick knew it. He took delight in Edith's attention, but clearly had no respect for her, and Sybil had heard him refer to her sister on more than one occasion as an "adorable little lost puppy". Oh how tempting it was to perform a spell and turn him into…into…

Well, a cockroach or a leech. Never a toad; she liked the toads too much.

After Edith's debut season, she kept waiting and waiting for Patrick to make a proposal, foolishly thinking he would, as he had told her "everything would be so much simpler if a Crawley girl were to serve as his countess". Antagonism erupted between the two elder sisters, and Sybil blamed Patrick entirely. Oh yes, if she knew how to master such a spell, she would turn him into the leech that he was! What Edith needed was a love spell; something that would take her mind off Patrick. Edith was a sweet girl, and deserved to be loved properly by a proper gentleman, not a cad who wore a gentleman's clothes. And while the issue was complicated, it would be easier to study love spells for Edith, rather than try to figure out how to make Mary's wish come true. All she needed was a man who would be perfect for her sister!

…And that man finally presented himself, the year Sybil would turn twenty-one.

Sir Anthony Strallan had been serving in his majesty's army on the Continent during the Great War, but was finally returning to England to settle back, once more, into his nearby home of Locksley. It was Cora's idea to invite Sir Anthony to dinner ("we've never had a war hero at the table!" she exclaimed), and so the baronet came, very polite, smiling wide, and to Sybil's delight, she noticed how there seemed to be an instant connection between him and Edith right away! Oh it was splendid! And it didn't hurt that the bloom was starting to come off the rose for Edith where Patrick was concerned (he had gone to Canada to look into some information about a railroad, hoping to convince Robert to invest "his future inheritance" with the company). Yes, Edith and Sir Anthony had a great deal to talk about, and it was all a pleasant surprise to the rest of the family with how well the two of them seemed to get along.

"He is a bit old, though," Violet muttered into her teacup as she observed her middle granddaughter and the baronet in conversation from across the drawing room after dinner.

"Age, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder," Cora replied, smiling at Sybil who was nodding her head in agreement.

Yes indeed. She had the answer to the spell she would perform for her sister! Now she just needed to gather the right ingredients and make it work!

Sir Anthony was going away to London for a few weeks (something about interviewing drivers as he was in need of a new chauffeur), but he would be back within a fortnight. Cora quickly invited him to return and have dinner with them again when he was back, which he agreed he would. Two weeks then, Sybil realized. Two weeks to create the potion she would need and figure out a way to administer it to Sir Anthony!

And so her work began. Every day during those two weeks, Sybil was hard at work, staying up very late and studying the Crawley spell book, chanting the words until she was certain she had them memorized, working in the kitchens with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, wanting to make sure she was using just the right amount of ingredients (without letting them know what she was up to, as one of the most important things about these spells was keeping them secret!), and it was while she was working in the kitchens at the idea came to her.

A pudding! Sir Anthony had mentioned at their last meal how much he had loved Mrs. Patmore's treacle pudding, and so Cora had asked the Downton cook to create that especially for him. And that would be how she would administer the love potion! "Let me help you with making the pudding, please?" she begged the witchy cook the day before Sir Anthony was to return.

Mrs. Patmore eyed Sybil suspiciously. "No offense, milady, but the last time you attempted to make something, Daisy nearly lost her eyebrows!"

Sybil bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen maid who took a wary step back when she saw Sybil standing awfully close to the stove.

"I'm better now, I swear!" Sybil insisted. "And I'll just add and mix the ingredients; you can bake the pudding. Please?"

Mrs. Patmore sighed and nodded her head in defeat. Alfred, who followed Sybil everywhere, wove his gangly ginger body around the cook's legs to show his appreciation. "Ugh, get that mangy thing out of here!" the cook muttered, lifting her foot in a threatening manner, which sent the cat scurrying.

That night, Sybil took all the ingredients she would need for potion, and grounded them up into what looked like a white, grainy paste. She placed the ground-up potion in a special jar, that would sit on her windowsill to absorb the white light of the full moon (an odd ingredient, but according to the spell book was most essential) and said a special chant over it, ensuring that whoever partook of the potion would give his heart to the woman of his desire upon first seeing her. Yes, this was going to be wonderful! For the first time since she had learned about her powers, Sybil felt rather confident in them.

The next day came, and Sybil practically skipped down to the kitchens, holding her little jar close to her heart, Alfred close at her heels. "No, Alfred, you need to stay out or Mrs. Patmore will turn you into stew, I'm certain!" The cat hated being away from her, and began to yowl as Sybil pushed the door closed in his face. She put on her apron and went right to work in helping the Downton cook make the pudding (with Daisy watching from a safe distance). She placed her tiny jar up on a shelf just overhead, planning to use it as "sugar" to be sprinkled over the top of the pudding, when it was finished.

Only…there was a slight problem.

Sybil hadn't realized that when she put the jar on the shelf, she had also put it next to another jar…containing a white, grainy substance. And while the dinner was going up, Alfred saw his chance and dashed into the kitchen to be close to his witch. "Oi!" Mrs. Patmore shouted at the sight of the ginger cat. "Get this mangy bag of fleas out of my kitchen!"

"Alfred!" Sybil groaned, trying to grab the cat who was running away from the cook's threatening rolling pin. "I told you to stay out!"

Daisy joined Sybil in trying to capture the cat, while Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes and took the pudding out of the oven to cool. Satisfied that it was perfect (and after a little taste test, surprised with how well Sybil had done) reached up to the shelf and grabbed for the small jar of sugar to be sprinkled over the top.

But she paused. And glanced over her shoulder at the young witch who had just managed to capture the cat and deposit him into Daisy's arms, who took him outside. "Milady?" Mrs. Patmore called. "Would you do the honors? Seeing as how you did most of the work?"

Sybil's eyes went wide and she rushed over to the pudding, thanking the cook before carefully dipping a spoon into the jar, and quietly murmuring the words she had chanted the night before, while sprinkling the potion on top.

"Beautiful," Mrs. Patmore said with a grin. Sybil watched as one of the footmen took the pudding, and nibbled on her bottom lip, nervously feeling the need to follow and see everything unfold. She hadn't dressed for dinner; in fact she had made up a lie to her family that she had a headache, and so would take a tray in her room. But she followed the footman and held her breath as she stood outside the dining room, craning her neck to see the pudding go in, and listening to Sir Anthony's happy exclamation at the sight of it.

_Just one bite, that's all it will take! One bite and then he will look at Edith and the rest is detail! _Yes, this would work; she would have completed one spell successfully for her sisters!

"OH GOOD GOD!"

Sybil's eyes went wide and her face paled at the altogether different exclamation that had come from Sir Anthony's lips when he took a bite of the pudding. Everyone gasped and stared in horror as Sir Anthony began spitting into his napkin, before muttering a thousand apologies to his hosts, explaining that the pudding was covered in salt.

Salt.

_SALT?!_

Sybil stumbled backwards as realization dawned on her.

Salt. Salt had been sprinkled onto the pudding—_NOT_ her potion! Oh blast it all!

Sybil felt her eyes fill with frustrated tears and she flew back down to the kitchens, needing to retrieve her potion jar, although it was tempting to just fly upstairs to her room and lock the door for the rest of the night. But no, no, she couldn't leave a love potion just lying around the Downton kitchens. Good heavens, what if Mrs. Patmore used it by accident in some other recipe instead of salt? Yes, she could see it now; the house overrun with love-sick servants. No, she needed to go back and retrieve that jar and come up with some other solution.

"Ah, Lady Sybil!" Daisy called to her when Sybil returned to the kitchens. Clearly the horrible news hadn't reached them yet, and she didn't want to be around when Carson came to inform Mrs. Patmore about the pudding disaster. "Would you be so kind as to take this to Sir Anthony's chauffeur?" the kitchen maid sweetly asked. She was holding a piping cup of tea and had just finished stirring in a little bit of sugar. "It's awfully chilly outside tonight and I figured he would like something to warm him up; but I'm afraid if I go out there, Alfred will try to get back in, but if you go—"

Sybil nodded her head, taking the teacup and pausing just long enough to reach up to the shelf where she had put her potion jar and stuffed it into her apron pocket. She stepped outside, shivering at the sharp, cold wind that hit her in the face, and looked across the dark, gravel drive towards the Downton garage, where sure enough, she saw a light on and a figure hunched over the open bonnet of a car. She quickly made her way across the drive, surprised to see that Alfred was nowhere in sight! Perhaps the cat was smart and sought a warmer place to wait for her? "Excuse me!" Sybil called out to the driver, wishing she had brought a shawl or something to drape over her shoulders. Had he heard her? The wind did seem awfully loud.

The chauffeur lifted his head, and Sybil came to an abrupt stop, nearly dropping the cup. Good heavens! He didn't look like any chauffeur she had seen before! No, he…well, to put it simply, he was rather…handsome. _Very_ handsome, actually. He looked at her as he wiped his hands with an old rag, a crooked smile spreading across his face, which only seemed to enhance his already handsome features.

"I…" she swallowed, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "I…I brought you this," she muttered, holding the teacup out to him.

He looked down at the cup and then back at her, his smile growing, but this time there seemed to be something very…heartfelt and genuine about it. "Thank you," he murmured, and Sybil felt her heart leap at the sound of his voice, as well as gentle lilt of his Irish accent.

She fidgeted for a moment, unsure what to say or do next. But really, what more was there to say? She had performed her task, brought him a cup of tea, and now it was time to go back inside and face Mrs. Patmore's wrath for the pudding. Oh Lord, the woman would NEVER let her anywhere near the kitchens again after this night, which would make things even more difficult in trying to get Sir Anthony to consume the potion—

"Is something wrong?"

She turned back to the chauffeur, her cheeks growing hot as she realized how silly she must look right now. "No, no, everything is fine," she muttered, forcing a smile.

He lifted an eyebrow at her words. "Beggin' your pardon, but you don't look like 'everything's fine'."

Sybil narrowed her eyes. "Well how do I look then?" she snapped, her frustration growing by the second. She shouldn't be taking it out on this poor man, what had he done? Nothing, he was just being observant, and clearly her true emotions were plain as day.

However, if her reaction had offended him, he didn't show it. In fact, that crooked smile he had given her when they first met returned. "Honestly? You look like you're ready to tear my head off and use it as a football."

Sybil groaned and threw her hands up into the air. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to…oh just…_THIS NIGHT!"_ she exclaimed. No, it was more than this night. It was EVERYTHING! Everything she tried to do, every spell, every charm, every potion, everything! She couldn't even fly a broomstick properly! After eleven years, she still remained THE WORST witch the Crawley family had ever seen.

The chauffeur gazed at her for a moment, and then leaned back against the car, placing his untouched teacup down for a moment. "Want to talk about it?"

No, not really. Besides, witches weren't supposed to reveal themselves to non-magical folks without permission from The Grand Warlock. And yet she was so tired and so frustrated by everything going wrong, and even though this handsome Irishman was a complete stranger, she suddenly found herself opening up and sharing with him about how she couldn't seem to do anything right, even make a simple pudding! That no matter how hard she studied, she kept making mistakes! And all she wanted was to make the people she cared for happy, but rather, all she seemed to do was bring about disappointment. And then she found herself sagging against the car next to him, her head lowered in defeat, before muttering, "Maybe I should just stop altogether."

"Maybe you should?"

Sybil's eyes flew up to the chauffeur who was looking at her thoughtfully, and she felt her cheeks warm again at the way his gaze held hers. There was a kindness in his eyes…and she felt that sweet, familiar warmth wash over her again, just like Mrs. Patmore's hot chocolate (although she did not taste it this time).

"But I can't…" she answered.

"Why not?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "It's your life; you should do something that makes you happy, something you love! And it sounds like this is only making you miserable," he reached for his teacup then.

But even if she didn't want to be a witch, she couldn't escape her powers. She was stuck with them! Oh if only she could be like Cousin Isobel, and use her powers in a way that was helpful to people! "It's not that simple," she muttered under her breath.

The cup was halfway to his lips, but he paused and gazed at her sad profile. "Maybe," he murmured. "But…that doesn't mean you should settle. The world is changing, especially for women, and—"

He paused then, his own face turning red and Sybil gazed up at him, blushing herself, but smiling at his words.

"Sorry," he murmured, looking a little sheepish. He then quickly added, "I mean, I'm _not_ sorry for what I said, but…but…" he straightened himself and extended his hand to her. "Perhaps I should introduce myself before I start 'preaching' about socialism and women's rights?"

Sybil laughed then, the first laugh she had had all night, and good heavens, it felt wonderful. The chauffeur smiled at this, looking very pleased at the sound. "Tom Branson," he murmured, bowing his head slightly, and Sybil felt the heat rise once again as he spoke, and as his fingers curled around her own.

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the kitchen door flew open and Mrs. Patmore's voice came bellowing out into the night, louder than autumn wind. "LADY SYBIL!"

"Oh no," Sybil groaned, lowering her head in defeat.

The chauffeur, Tom Branson, looked puzzled. "Is Lady Sybil one of Lord Grantham's daughters?" he asked.

Sybil looked up at him, and then it suddenly realized that not only did he not know her name, as she still had yet to introduce herself, but that no doubt by the clothes she wore…he thought her one of the servants!

"She is…" she answered, before giving a weary sigh and running her hands down her apron. "And um…she is also 'me'."

Tom's eyes widened suddenly, and then he quickly lowered his head, as any "good servant" would. "I…I…I beg your pardon, milady, I…I didn't know—"

"No, no, please, don't apologize, I should have said something, I…it was just so nice to talk to someone without—"

_"LADY SYBIL!"_ Mrs. Patmore roared again.

Sybil groaned and shook her head. "I better go," she sighed, giving her new friend a look of defeat. "But thank you…Tom," she murmured, wanting him to know that she did appreciate what he had said, as well as for the simple act of listening to her.

"You're welcome, milady," he answered, still sounding and looking a bit nervous, but also genuine, and that genuine smile she had seen him wear earlier returned, and once again, Sybil felt her heart warm.

With a resolute sigh, she turned and began marching back to the kitchens, although it might as well have been the executioner's block for how she felt right now. As she moved, Tom sighed and lifted the teacup to his lips, finally taking a sip of the steaming liquid and letting its warmth wash over him.

And then he began coughing.

He doubled over, coughing loudly, his hands dropping the teacup and going to his chest, covering his heart which suddenly began to throb and pulse and beat very strangely. "Aaaargh!" he groaned, before taking several long, deep breaths, and straightening himself up, just in time to see Lady Sybil disappear into the kitchens…

And that was the moment.

Tom Branson was in love with Lady Sybil Crawley.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry for the lateness of this update! Lots of distractions, blah, blah, blah, but here it is! This chapter is a little more "filler" between the rest of the story and the first chapter, but some things start to be set into motion for future scenes between our witchy Sybil and Tom Branson. Also, this fic *could* fall into the EAST category, as Edith/Sir Anthony are a minor plotpoint ;o) anyway, I hope you enjoy, and THANK YOU SO MUCH to all the lovely support and reviews and follows I received last week! I'm glad folks are enjoying this fun little Halloween season romp :oP Thanks as always for reading!_

_Also, dedicating this chapter to the AMAZING Sybil/Tom fandom manip artist **angiemagz** (check out her tumblr blog if you haven't! You will be blown away by her talents!). She made the lovely cover-art for this story-THANKS ANGIE!_

* * *

_Chapter Two_

He was trembling as he sat in the open air motor, but it wasn't because of the harsh chill that was blowing around them.

Tom Branson swallowed and stared straight ahead, his expression vague, as if he were simply looking off into nothingness. But before him the memory of her face—her beautiful, blushing face—kept coming before his eyes, and with every heartbeat, he felt himself fall even deeper.

Sybil…her name was Sybil. He smiled as he whispered her name to himself. "Sybil…" It suited her; it was the perfect name, because…because it was _hers_. God in heaven, he had never felt this way about ANYONE! He was drunk…drunk on love. Completely intoxicated, and he found himself hoping he would never sober up.

The doors to the house opened then and Tom swallowed, took a deep breath, and quickly rose from the car to open the door for his employer, who tipped his hat to his hosts, thanking them again for the evening, his eyes lingering, it seemed on someone in the background, before finally turning and moving quickly down the steps to the waiting motor.

"Thank you, Branson," Sir Anthony greeted, climbing inside as Tom nodded his head and shut the door.

He quickly returned to the front and began to drive the car away, although he couldn't help but glance back again at the house they were leaving. Because somewhere behind those daunting walls, _she_ was there.

"Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?" he asked his employer, trying to focus on the road before him, rather than continue to crane his neck and look back at Downton Abbey.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes it was," Sir Anthony answered, although Tom did notice that his employer would every so often make a face, as if he were trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

"Was the meal to your liking?"

"What? Oh, oh um…yes, it was…for the most part," Sir Anthony replied, trying to still say the polite thing, even though it was clear he was thinking otherwise.

"And the company? I understand that the Crawleys are greatly respected around here…"

"Oh yes, very respectable family, very hospitable," Sir Anthony answered, and Tom noticed as he glanced back, how there seemed to be a bit of a dreamy-looking smile forming on the baronet's lips.

"I…I understand that Lord Grantham has…three daughters?" Tom bit his lip, wondering if he was starting to push too far. He normally wasn't this "chatty" when he drove people around, but he desperately wanted some answers about the beautiful and mysterious Lady Sybil Crawley.

"Hmm? Oh yes, yes, very charming ladies," Sir Anthony murmured, that smile once again forming on the man's face. "Especially Lady Edith…"

Tom didn't know who Lady Edith was, but it was obvious based on what he could see of his employer's face in the dark, that the man was clearly…_intrigued_, with the woman in question (his mother would say "smitten").

"Lady Mary is lovely too, of course," Sir Anthony added after a brief cough and clearing of his throat.

Tom held his breath. "And…and the third one…?"

Sir Anthony frowned. "Lady Sybil you mean? She wasn't present at dinner; something about headache, I heard. And while yes, she's very pretty, she is practically a child still; although I do think I recall Lady Grantham mentioning that she would be attending a special ball at the end of the month, to honor her twenty-first birthday that took place earlier in the summer." He shrugged his shoulders, clearly not interested in the subject, though Tom found himself hanging on every word.

Twenty-one. Sir Anthony was right, she did look young, but not as young as Sir Anthony seemed to be implying. Of course, there was a much wider age gap between his employer and the youngest Crawley daughter. Would she think a man like _him_ too old? He was only twenty-seven, but—wait, why was she having a special ball now, if her birthday had happened earlier in the summer?

And as if that were only question. No, the biggest question was why had she been dressed like one of the kitchen maids? Because that was what he thought she was when he first met her; one of the members of the kitchen staff, in her flour-covered apron…and there had been flour on her hands…her arms…a little up on her cheeks…even a little in her hair…God how he would love to run his fingers across her cheek and through her hair…did it feel as silky as it looked? He was sure it did. And no doubt her cheek would be softer than a dove's breast…God, his fingers ached to touch her, to feel her, to kiss her, to—

"Branson, be careful!"

Tom gripped the steering wheel and pulled the car back onto the road (they had been dangerously teetering near the side of the ditch). "Sorry, sir!" he quickly apologized, embarrassed by his sudden foolishness. He had never driven so sloppily before; what was wrong with him?

Sir Anthony looked at his new chauffeur with concern. "Are you alright?" he asked, wondering if the Irishman had fallen ill. The references Branson came with were quite excellent, and even though the man was young, so far he had seemed to be a good driver.

"I am, sir, my apologies," Tom apologized again, trying to focus all of his attentions on the road before him and not on the memory of a certain lady's deep blue eyes. "Do you think you'll be returning again soon?"

Sir Anthony was trying to relax once more in the backseat. "I'm not sure; I mean, dinner was pleasant…enough," he murmured, still making that face as he had done before, Tom noticed. "Hmmm, perhaps it would be better to make a social visit sometime when a meal isn't being served…"

Tom saw his chance. "I…I would be more than happy, sir, to deliver any messages for you."

Sir Anthony glanced up, looking a little surprised by his chauffeur's offer. "That's very thoughtful and kind of you, Branson, but I don't think that will be necessary. After all, Downton Abbey is less than ten miles from Locksley, I'm sure just a simple note to the post—"

"That could take a day, though," Tom interrupted. "And…and if I deliver the message, it will reach them that very afternoon—I could deliver a message tomorrow, sir, I don't mind!"

Good God, what had come over him? He knew he was playing with fire, the way he was pushing his employer, and yet he was desperate to see her again, and Tom honestly didn't know if he could simply sit around and wait until Lord and Lady Grantham sent his employer another invitation.

Thankfully, Sir Anthony didn't seem to find Tom's instance about being a personal delivery man to Downton Abbey at all odd or suspicious, in fact…he looked as if he were giving the idea some heavy thought.

"Well…now that you mention it, I would very much like to reassure her Ladyship that I did enjoy this evening, despite that one little incident at dinner…"

Tom didn't know what Sir Anthony was referring to, but he honestly didn't care. He needed to make the most of this opportunity. "Then let me deliver that message for you tomorrow, sir. I'll even take it first thing the morning."

Sir Anthony laughed then. "I appreciate your service, Branson, but that won't be necessary," he chuckled. "I doubt I'll write it tonight, but tomorrow, after breakfast, so you can deliver it around luncheon."

Tom inwardly groaned. That felt too far away! But he knew better than to argue the matter, and he was glad that Sir Anthony had at least agreed to do this. But even so, did that guarantee he would run into Lady Sybil again? No, it didn't.

But it might.

And right now, "might" and "maybe" were better than "nothing" and "not at all".

* * *

Sybil was weary. She had spent the last few hours serving her "punishment" for ruining Mrs. Patmore's treacle pudding, by helping all of the kitchen maids with the washing up, while the Downton cook and witch sat at a nearby table and helped herself to a glass of sherry. Sybil was tempted to try that "telekinetic washing spell" she had learned a few years ago…although if memory serves, more dishes ended up broken than clean, and right now, it was best to avoid magic altogether in the cook's presence.

Now that the task was done, she trudged up the stairs to her room, ready to collapse on her bed and pull the covers up over her head. But what good would that do? No, she needed to through the spell book and try and find an alternative solution to the mistakes she had made this evening. October had just started, and she had until the 31st to complete her task of giving both her sisters a spell for their benefit.

And she was running out of time.

"Oh there you are," Sybil groaned, seeing the ginger cat rise up from the pillow he had been lounging on when Sybil entered her bedroom. "You know, this is all your fault!" she accused, shaking a finger at Alfred. He simply tilted his head, looking at her curiously. "I told you to stay out of the kitchens, but you just had to enter, and because of your hijinks, I put salt instead of my potion into the pudding!"

Alfred opened his big mouth and gave her a yawn by way of an answer.

Sybil rolled her eyes. Typical.

A knock on her door drew her out of her thoughts. "Sybil? Are you awake?" Sybil looked down at herself and groaned at the sight of herself in the flour-stained dress she was wearing. She hardly looked like someone who had gone to bed, complaining of a headache.

"Just a second!" she called back to her sister, quickly doing what she could to divest herself of the dress and throw on her nightgown. She had gotten better at dressing/undressing herself without the help of a housemaid, but when it came to something like her corset, she still needed help with those wretched things.

"If you're too tired, I can always—"

"No, no, it's alright!" Sybil reassured, kicking her now discarded dress and slip under the bed for Alfred to chase, while throwing her nightgown over her corset. She'd deal with that later. "Come in!"

The door creaked open and Sybil put on a smile for her sister as Edith poked her head into the room. "Are you sure I'm not disturbing you?"

"No, no, please…" Sybil shook her head, making a gesture for her sister to enter the room. "Tell me, how was dinner?"

Edith's pleasant smile faded slightly, and Sybil winced. Oh Lord, had it really been that bad? She was hoping that maybe the pudding hadn't ruined the entire evening…or her sister's chances with Sir Anthony Strallan.

"Well…for the most part it was lovely," Edith explained, forcing a smile and choosing not to dwell on the salty pudding, which Sybil was rather grateful for.

"And…Sir Anthony?" she asked, nibbling her lip and looking eager for her sister's response.

A small blush colored Edith's cheeks and Sybil felt her insides melt at the sight. Oh this was a good sign! Perhaps she wouldn't have to use as potent a potion as she thought?

"He was very polite, of course," Edith explained. "Now that he's settled back in Yorkshire, he wants to modernize his estate; he talked about some of the unique farming instruments that are all the rage, apparently, on the Continent."

Sybil lifted her eyebrows at this. This was getting better and better! "And…and did you talk about the aid in which you provided the tenants in driving the tractor for them during the War?"

Edith blushed but smiled and nodded her head. "Yes, he was rather impressed by that. He asked me a little bit more about driving; he loves to drive himself, but because of the injury he sustained during the War, he finds it best to have a chauffeur, at least for any drives after it gets dark."

Now it was Sybil's turn to blush. Yes, she remembered Sir Anthony's chauffeur very well. Indeed, he was a handsome looking man, and how could anyone forget that accent? But despite his good looks, it was his words that stuck with Sybil.

_"It's your life; you should do something that makes you happy, something you love!"_

All her life, Sybil felt she didn't have choices. She was the Crawley witch for that generation, and she had a "duty" to serve as such, according to her grandmother. But she had never really ever…"enjoyed" being a witch; even after all the hard work she had done over the years. Yes, she had made some improvements, as her mother said she would, but still…in the end, she found the whole thing rather bothersome and tedious. Oh, to have the freedom to do what she wanted with her life! To be more than just "the Crawley family witch". But was it possible? Or was it all just a dream and nothing more?

"Oh by the way, Patrick wrote to us…"

Sybil snapped out of her thoughts and stared at her sister with wide eyes. "Patrick?" she gasped. She hadn't heard her cousin's name spoken in weeks.

Edith nodded. "He's still in Montreal; but he says he hopes to return before the end of the month," she explained. "Most of the letter was about this Canadian railway company he thinks Papa should invest in," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

Sybil eyed her sister, taking notice that Edith continued to not seem as enamored as she once had been for their cousin, which in her opinion was a very good thing.

"And…Sir Anthony?"

Edith frowned. "What about Sir Anthony?"

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip. "I mean…well…what do you think of Sir Anthony?" she asked, hoping she sounded casual and not at all obvious.

Edith's frown deepened. "Well…as I said before, I think he's very polite and good natured, and he's very much a gentleman—"

"Do you like him?"

The words had burst out before Sybil had even a chance to rein them in. Oh Lord, now she had gone and done it.

Edith's face turned a dark crimson and she quickly rose from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting. "I…why Sybil, I…" she blushed even more and began to fidget, her eyes looking anywhere but her sister. "Sir Anthony is very…he's very amiable, I mean…of course, he is, but…but…"

Sybil bit her lip. This didn't sound positive.

"I mean…he's Papa's age, not that age really matters, of course, I mean it's obvious he has a young spirit, but…but Granny wouldn't approve anyway, and…oh for heaven's sake, Sybil, why did you ask me that?" Sybil was asking herself that very same question, especially based on the glare she was receiving from Edith. Clearly she had pushed too far. _Perhaps I should rethink that thought about how much potion to use next time…?_

"I'm going to bed," Edith announced. She bent down then and gave Sybil's brow a little kiss, before turning on her heel and quickly exiting the room. "Goodnight!" she called over her shoulder, before shutting the door, and leaving Sybil to sit and stew with her thoughts.

"Goodnight…" Sybil muttered to the echo of the door. With a groan, she flopped back onto the bed, and Alfred came and snuggled just next to her side, his purr loud in her ears as he proceeded to groom his paws and wash his face.

Oh why did things have to be so difficult? Why couldn't Mary inherit Downton? Why couldn't Edith find true love with Sir Anthony Strallan? Why did their cousin Patrick have be such a beast? Why did _she_ have to be a witch!? Why couldn't she take Tom Branson's advice and choose _not_ to settle for the cards which life had dealt her?

_Tom Branson._

…She remembered his name.

A smile slowly curled at the edge of her lips, and then it was quickly followed by a blush as she recalled the look of horror on his face when he realized who she truly was. No doubt he thought her one of the servants, based on the clothes she had worn. Had he been disappointed when he learned the truth? Or was that simply her imagination?

She sighed and rolled over onto her side, her eyes meeting the cat's, as he paused in his grooming to look at her. "It was nice," she murmured to the cat. "Simply…_talking_ to someone, without them knowing who I was…or what I am…" she sighed.

Alfred yawned again.

"Oh you're no help," Sybil groaned, poking her tongue out at the cat. "I have a good mind to put on a spell on you; turn you into one of the footmen, or something."

The cat's eyes widened at this, and he gave what could only be described as a disgusted yowl, before hopping off the bed and leaving Sybil to lie there and try to think of what her next best plan of action would be for both her sisters.

…And _not_ about her encounter with Sir Anthony's chauffeur.

* * *

Sybil was on her way down to the breakfast room, when a knock was heard, echoing off the large front doors of the house. Carson would be busy in the breakfast room, and there were no footmen in sight, so Sybil decided since she was there, she would simply answer the knock, although she couldn't think as to who would be paying a call at nine in the morning.

"Oh!" she gasped, the color draining from her face, before quickly flooding it once again as she stared into the blue-green gaze of Sir Anthony Strallan's chauffeur.

Tom Branson.

"Milady!" he gasped, clearly not expecting to see her either, and his gloved hand rose to quickly remove his hat, the gesture so fast that it caused some of his hair to fall across brow, a light, sandy brown color, that had traces of dark gold…

Her fingers actually twitched with a yearning to brush it aside.

She moved her hand behind her back, as if the gesture would cease the temptation (and its thought).

"Um…" Sybil blushed, feeling rather awkward. "Can I…help you?"

He was staring at her, his eyes intense and searching, his gaze hypnotic; she was finding it rather difficult to look away.

"I…" he began to speak, but his words seemed to lose themselves in his throat as he continued to look at her. The heat in her cheeks only grew hotter. "Forgive me, I…I just…"

Just what? He hadn't explained his presence at all.

"Is…is Sir Anthony here?" Sybil asked, a note of hope in her voice. Had the baronet come to call on Edith? Perhaps she could convince him to come into the breakfast room, have a cup of a tea with them at the very least; she could run up to her room, grab her potion, and offer it to him as "sugar" for his tea—

"No, I…I'm afraid not," he murmured, looking down at his feet then.

Was he disappointed? His voice sounded that way. But why? And why was he there? Not that his presence was unpleasant or anything—quite the opposite, actually! But…ever since their odd and brief encounter last night, Sybil hadn't dreamed that the Irishman would be back so quickly, or that the two of them would find themselves in such a situation where they were practically by themselves, talking once more.

"Here now! What is the meaning of this!?"

Both of them jumped at the sudden thunderous bellow of the Downton butler, who was marching towards the door, a deep scowl covering his face as he glared at Sir Anthony's chauffeur with suspicion. "Thank you, Lady Sybil for answering the door, I shall take it from here," Carson growled, his eyes still fixed on Tom Branson. Sybil frowned; good heavens, there was no need for that attitude. "Yes, sir? How may I be of service?"

Despite his words, the butler didn't sound remotely interested in "helping" Mr. Branson, or providing him with "service", whatever his reasons for coming. And clearly the Irishman understood that, because Sybil noticed as she looked over Carson's shoulder, the way Mr. Branson stiffened, lifting his chin, his jaw straight and a deep frown crossing his own features as he returned Carson's formidable gaze with one of his own.

"Sir Anthony asked me to bring a message to you," Mr. Branson declared at last, his hand moving to the pocket of his livery jacket, and producing a small envelope.

Carson frowned. "At nine o'clock in the morning!?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Branson!" she said with a pleasant smile, pushing her way around Carson and snatching the letter from the chauffeur's hands. "I'll see that it is delivered! Did Sir Anthony say to whom it was for?" _Please say Edith, please say Edith, please say Edith!_

"Her Ladyship, thanking her for the dinner and lovely evening," he explained.

Sybil's heart sank a little at that. Of course, that was the "proper" person for Sir Anthony to write to and thank, but still, she had been hoping that perhaps the man had been so enamored with her sister the other night, that he had insisted on having this message sent straight away. Why else would Mr. Branson be here so early? It seemed odd that if the message were the basic thank you one would send to a host…why go to all the trouble of having it delivered, specially?

Sybil realized then that Mr. Branson was still looking at her, a smile lifting at the corners of his mouth as he gazed, completely ignoring the harsh expression that graced Carson's face. "Is that all, sir?" Carson growled, moving until he was blocking Sybil's view of the chauffeur, and vice versa.

Yet before an answer could be given, the voice of Violet Crawley was suddenly ringing in Sybil's ears and off the walls of the house's great hall. "SYBIL!? SYBIL, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

Now what?

Sybil gasped and she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Branson, who was looking a bit confused by the loud, trilling voice of her grandmother. Violet lived in the Dower House, which was a little closer to the village, and normally had Pratt drive her back and forth from Downton. Yet every so often, if Violet desperately needed to get to the house or somewhere as quickly as possible, she would use that teleportation spell which Sybil had seen referenced in the Crawley family spell book, but which her grandmother declared was "far too advanced" for a witch of "Sybil's stature". She only prayed that Mr. Branson would not find the matter odd—or that he had noticed the sudden appearance of her grandmother out of thin air.

"SYBIL!? Where is that troublesome girl?" Violet muttered to no one in particular, or so Sybil thought, until she heard some voices murmuring in response. Oh lovely, her grandmother was in the breakfast room. Sybil groaned; so much for a peaceful meal that morning.

"Thank you for delivering your message, Mr. Branson," Sybil politely thanked, before turning and moving quickly to the breakfast room before her grandmother's voice brought everyone on staff and half the village to see and hear whatever it was that had her so agitated. _Oh no, does she know about the pudding?_

Straightening her shoulders, she gave a resolute sigh and entered the room, hoping she was prepared for whatever reason her grandmother felt it so important to descend upon Downton now, at this hour, rather than wait until she usually arrived sometime between luncheon and tea.

"OH! Oh good, there you are!" Violet declared, practically tugging Sybil into the room and forcing her down on a chair.

"Good morning to you too, Granny," Sybil muttered, wondering what on earth this was all about.

But Violet was practically beaming. "It's happening, my dear, IT'S HAPPENING!"

Sybil was even more confused. "What? _What _is happening?"

Without a word, Violet slammed a piece of paper down in front of Sybil.

"Read that!" Violet grinned, pointing at the paper.

Sybil didn't dare contradict her. She looked at the paper and realized it was a card…with gold trim and beautiful lettering.

_**To Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley,  
By order of his excellency, the Grand Warlock,  
you are invited to attend the 1133**__**rd**__** Annual All Hallows Eve Masked Ball  
October 31**__**st**__**, 1919  
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire**_

Sybil's eyes grew wide as she reread that last line again.

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire**_

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire.

DOWNTON ABBEY—_her Downton Abbey?_

"The ball is to be held HERE!?" Sybil gasped, turning and looking up at her grandmother with unbelievable eyes.

"WHAT!?" Robert coughed, dropping his newspaper and staring at the invitation his mother had given Sybil. He also turned to Violet, waiting for an explanation, but Violet simply stood there, looking proud, before marching around the room and muttering about changes that will need to be made to make sure the house is prepared for such a gathering. "MAMA!" Robert practically bellowed_. "WHY_ is this ball being held here!? AND WHY WASN'T I INFORMED!?"

"Oh Robert, you needn't worry about it, I'll have it all under control!" Violet practically sang as she moved out of the room and began to assess the rest of the house, Mrs. Hughes following at her heels, taking notes as Violet read them off. Mary and Edith were stunned speechless. Robert was fuming. And even though her mother wasn't there in the breakfast room, Sybil had no doubt that if she were, she would be looking very angry that her mother-in-law has once again tried to "retake the reins" of what was once her house when she was still Countess of Grantham. Sybil, however, felt any appetite she did have quickly disappear, and so without a word, rose from her chair and quickly retreated, desperate for some fresh air. Within a matter of minutes, she found herself in the gardens, trying to calm the erratic beating of her heart as her mind processed all this new information.

The annual masked ball, held every year on All Hallows Eve, was going to be _there_, at Downton. Every witch and warlock in English Society, would be descending on their house, and even though the instructions hadn't been given, Sybil knew that she would be expected to play hostess, because she was the Crawley family witch. And this would be the ball where she would come out into society at last.

…And she still needed to finish her spells for her sisters. Oh Lord, this was an utter disaster! How would she be able to concentrate on all of this? It was too much!

The sound of footsteps crunching on some twigs nearby drew her out of her thoughts and she whirled around, gasping a second time as her eyes met those of Sir Anthony's chauffeur. He immediately stopped where he stood, holding his hands up in a gesture that was meant to be non-threatening. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you," he quickly apologized. "I…I just…I was about to leave, honestly, but…but I saw you come out, and you looked upset and…" his voice trailed off, and Sybil noticed how he kept wincing, as if he were in pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked, moving towards him, wondering if he truly was in pain.

"What?" he looked at her with confusion. "I…no, I'm fine, I…I'm sorry, I…" he groaned and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm making a complete arse of myself—" he winced again, no doubt at his very casual (and some may even call it "crude") speech. "Sorry," he muttered again, shaking his head and turning to leave her alone.

"It's alright!" Sybil called after him, hating that she had made him feel even more awkward. After all, he was simply showing her kindness, and while it did make her blush, it also made her smile, his concern and his notice that she seemed upset. "Thank you," she added, hoping her gratitude, which was genuine, would ease any anxiety he was feeling. "I am fine, honestly, just…" she glanced over her shoulder at the house. "Just feeling a bit…'overwhelmed', at the moment."

He removed his hat again, and Sybil noticed how once more, those strand of hair fell across his brow again (and once more her fingers twitched with a desire to brush it aside…as well as run through his hair—good heavens, where had that come from!?) "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He was being earnest. His offer to help was quite genuine; she could see that in his eyes. "No," she murmured, smiling at him, touched by his offer, but the sad truth was, he couldn't help. These were things beyond his understanding, beyond anyone's understanding who wasn't a witch, like herself. "But thank you, for the kind offer."

He nodded his head, a small smile lifting at the corners of his mouth. "Well…" he sighed, his gloved fingers fidgeting slightly as he held his hat. "Well, I…I best return, then."

Sybil felt her heart sink a little at the chauffeur's announcement, but she knew he was right. After all, he had come and done his duty, and then he had gone above and beyond by asking if she were alright when he noticed her agitation.

"Thank you, Branson," she murmured, smiling at him and then boldly offering her hand for him to shake.

"Milady…" he murmured, taking her offered hand, though he didn't shake it, at least not straight away. Instead, Sybil's breath caught in her throat as she felt his gloved fingers curl around hers. The way he held her hand was as if he thought it thought was the most precious thing in the world…or was that simply her wishful imagination?

They shook hands, though it was a bit awkward, and then his finally released hers…though there did seem to be some reluctance (once again, most likely her imagination). He took a few steps away from her, before sighing and turning on his back to return to the car he left in the gravel drive but a few feet away. Sybil smiled and moved her arms around her body to hug herself as she watched him go, appreciating the calm she had felt in the brief moment they had just shared together. The man was a stranger to her (not to mention the servant of their neighbor) and yet…he did have a strange way, in the few times she had met him, of putting her mind at ease.

…At least of what was happening in the world around her. Yes, he could put her at ease with those things, although he also had a way of bringing a different sort of anxiety to her mind…and body.

"I do mean it!"

He had turned around to face her once more, just before reaching the motor.

"If there's anything I can do…anything at all for you…I'll do it."

Sybil's mouth fell open. She honestly didn't know what to say! Why…why was he making such promises to her? He didn't know her! But…but even so, it was nice to hear. Very nice. And…yes, she believed he meant it, truly.

"Thank you," she answered, blushing but smiling and nodding her head in gratitude. "You're too kind."

He seemed to smile then, a rather shy, sheepish smile, one that Sybil could not deny melted her heart a bit. But he didn't say anything further, simply nodded his own head, before climbing into the car at last, and driving it away from Downton.

_Strange,_ she found herself thinking. And yet…she was smiling, because for the first time since…well, perhaps ever…she felt as if she had a friend. _Which is utterly absurd, since you hardly know him, and this is only the second time you've met him, and yet…and yet…_

And yet in those brief conversations, both the night before and just now…that was what she felt. A connection, a bond, something…between herself and Mr. Tom Branson.

* * *

Tom had to pull the car over after passing the gates that led to Downton Abbey. His body was shaking in such a way, that he if he didn't stop, he would run the risk of rolling off the road and into the ditch has he had almost done the night before.

Good God, what had come over him? Why was he behaving like this? He had barely gotten any sleep the night before, because all he could think about was _her_. He was so desperate to see her again, so hopeful that maybe, just maybe he would have that chance, and when he arrived with the message from his employer (there wasn't much to it, just a basic thank you to Lady Grantham) he had not been expecting for her to open the door.

A part of him had been wondering if this was all just a figment of his imagination. That because of the tea he had drunk last night (and the odd reaction he had had to it) that he only _thought_ himself enamored with Lady Sybil Crawley, but with the dawn of a new day, he would soon realize that the feelings racing through his mind and heart were nothing really…

But then seeing her open the door, seeing those striking blue-gray eyes, her pink cheeks, her lush lips parting and gasping in surprise, and hearing her voice…

His heart throbbed in such a way, he was sure he would collapse if he weren't gripping one of the doors to keep his balance.

But good Lord, he had been such an idiot in front of her! Stumbling over his words, both at the door, and then in the garden. What did she think of him? _Probably nothing, because you're just a servant in her eyes! _He gritted his teeth and lowered his head until his brow was resting against the steering wheel. This was an absolute, utter disaster. Why? Why did he have to fall in love with a beautiful, posh woman like her? She was too far above him! This was complete madness!

…And yet he couldn't stop. It _was_ love. There was no doubt that was what he felt for her; complete, head over heels _love_. "I'm doomed…" he groaned. What was he going to do? Romances like this always ended badly, didn't they? It was impossible!

_Or is it?_ He frowned at the hopeful voice that seemed to come from his heart. _Remember how you saw her last night. She's clearly like no posh girl you've ever met before; how many earls' daughters dress like kitchen staff and help with cooking?_ True…and he still didn't know the truth behind that reason, but he had a feeling Lady Sybil had an interesting story to share. But even so, why would she willingly give her heart to a man like him?

Then he remembered how she had briefly opened up to him last night, telling him how frustrated she was feeling, that everything she touched seemed to fall apart, that everything she did was a failure. He remembered at the time feeling pity for her, more so because she clearly had been led to believe these things about herself. He remembered then how he wished he could say or do something that would ease her burdens…and now, seeing her so upset, hearing her tell him how she felt so "overwhelmed"…now, more than anything, he wanted to help her.

…And maybe that was the answer? Maybe…just maybe…she would return his feelings, if he showed her how deeply he cared…by at the very least, simply being a friend?

"Aye," he murmured to himself as he lifted his head from the steering wheel, a sense of calmness and confidence washing over him as he restarted the car. "That I can do."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for the lateness of this update! I do like to try and get these in on Thursdays, but this one, as you can see, took on a life of it's own and became much longer than I had anticipated! Not that I regret it, however ;o) after all, we need to have SOME build-up for our lovely characters!_

_Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, and who encouraged me to take on this project. I really hope you enjoy this chapter, and this exploration into Sybil and Tom's "blossoming romance" from an entirely different perspective. Please let me know what you think! AND THANKS FOR READING!_

* * *

_Chapter Three_

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE CHAUFFEUR IS ILL!?" Violet thundered, her eyes like two hot coals as she stared at the Downton butler incredulously.

Carson winced at the woman's shrill tone, and Sybil couldn't help but feel pity for the man. It wasn't his fault that he was the bearer of bad tidings, yet perhaps now she understood the meaning behind the phrase, "don't kill the messenger" a little better now?

"I apologize, your Ladyship," Carson calmly murmured, his shoulders and back straightening a little more. "But after learning of Mr. Pratt's illness, we did send for Dr. Clarkson and it is his opinion, along with Mrs. Crawley, that Mr. Pratt is not well enough to drive Lady Sybil to York."

"Oh Isobel would interfere," Violet muttered under her breath. She glanced over at Sybil then, and Sybil's eyes widened at the rather accusing glare her grandmother was giving her. "And I suppose you're glad…"

"Me?" Sybil asked, rather confused by the accusation.

Violet rolled her eyes. "Don't play coy with me, my dear, I know that ever since I mentioned that the annual All Hallows Eve ball was going to be held here at Downton, you've been doing nothing but moping about, making faces behind my back—don't deny it!" she shook a finger at Sybil. "I see all, remember?"

She did; she remembered how her grandmother had frightened her at the age of six, when she revealed the special charm that quite literally gave her eyes on the back of her head.

"Granny, while I confess that yes, the idea of the ball being held here is rather daunting, no, I am not 'glad', as you accuse, that poor Pratt is ill and unable to drive me to York—"

"Good!" her grandmother interrupted. She turned to Carson then. "Ring Sir Anthony Strallan and ask if we can borrow his chauffeur."

"WHAT!?" Sybil's eyes went wide. Was her grandmother serious?

Clearly she was, judging from the harsh look she gave her youngest granddaughter. "The ball is only a fortnight away! You need to get yourself fitted for it, and I refuse to entrust this job for such an important occasion with the silly dressmaker's in Ripon," she grumbled, before muttering something about how they should have listened to her when she had suggested they go to Paris to find the perfect dress. She turned back to Carson and lifted her eyebrow, and the butler wasted no time in heading towards the library where the telephone was kept.

As soon as Carson had disappeared around the corner, Violet fixed her gaze once again on Sybil, her eyes narrowed. "I don't like this one bit," she muttered. "But heaven knows I need to stay here and oversee everything if I want to make sure this place is 'up to snuff' for the Grand Warlock and all the guests we will be having. And your mother doesn't trust me to do the job on my own," she muttered with a bit of an eye roll. "Which means that neither she nor I will be accompanying you to York."

Sybil did her best to suppress her own eye roll. "I am perfectly capable of speaking with the dressmakers on my own."

"Have Edith go with you, at least," Violet tried to reason, though her attention was already on something the maids were doing.

"That's not necessary—"

"I'd ask Mary to go with you, but she's run off somewhere with Matthew for the day," she shook her head at the inconvenience of it all.

"Really, Granny, I can manage—"

"How are your spells coming?"

Sybil's mouth quickly closed, and she tried with great difficult to keep the red in her cheeks at bay. "Fine," she muttered, her eyes looking elsewhere.

"Two weeks, Sybil," Violet reminded her, in a haughty tone. Before she could say anything further about the matter, a loud groan escaped her lips as she watched one of the housemaids carrying a vase of atrocious looking flowers into the drawing room. "Good heavens, what was Cora even thinking!?" she asked no one in particular, before immediately following the maid.

Sybil felt her shoulders slump and a heavy sigh escaped her lips. Two weeks…and she still wasn't any closer to fulfilling her duties as a Crawley witch to her non-magical sisters.

"Lady Sybil?" She turned at the sound of Carson's voice, the butler standing straight and tall as he delivered his message. "Sir Anthony's chauffeur will be here within the half-hour," he informed.

Sybil nodded her head in thanks, putting on a smile, before turning her head away and feeling her cheeks grow warm at the news.

She would be seeing him again; Tom Branson. The heat began to grow and Sybil felt her throat go a little dry. She had been seeing a great deal of Sir Anthony's handsome chauffeur over the past week or so. At first it had been surprising, though not unpleasant, never unpleasant. Then…she quickly found herself looking forward to his "unexpected" visits. There was something about him that just seemed…

_Right._

Yes, somehow, in the breath of time she had met and gotten to know Mr. Tom Branson, Sybil had quickly felt as if she had discovered a long-lost friend in the Irishman. And her smile grew as she remembered their recent chance meetings…

* * *

_A week ago…_

"ALFRED!" Sybil shouted, her hands on her hips as she glared up at the tree where the ginger cat had retreated to escape her wrath, and was now yowling for help. She groaned and stomped her foot, glaring at the feline. "I don't have time for this!" she muttered. "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Alfred responded with another mournful yowl.

"Oh honestly," Sybil groaned. "Whoever heard of a cat that was afraid of heights? No wonder you're always screeching when we try to fly my broom?" she rolled her eyes and then marched up to the tree, pursing her lips as she assessed the bark. She had climbed trees all the time when she was a child; granted it had been a good few years since she had attempted to do this very feat, but she was sure she could do it again. "Just hold still! I'm coming up!" she told the cat, making quick work of removing her boots and stockings, grabbing ends of her skirt and trying to tuck them up, thus pulling the hem of her skirt to her knees. Satisfied that she was as prepared as ever, she gripped the lowest branch of the tree and began to swing herself up; Alfred continued to yowl.

"Oh just be patient, I'm on my way!" she grumbled, giving the cat an annoyed look. "And you have only yourself to blame for this, you know!" she said through gritted teeth as she pulled herself up onto another branch. "If you had stayed away from the toads like I told you to, I wouldn't have yelled when you tried to pounce on one, and you wouldn't have rushed up to the top of the tree…and really, why was that such a brilliant plan? Because to rush up here was to escape me…when I am the one who must come and fetch you to bring you down!" she shook her head, trying to hoist herself up onto a third branch, though it felt rather weak to her fingers. "Now it will be both our necks," she muttered, gripping the branch and lifting…before the horrible sound of wood cracking and splintering filled the hair, and Sybil not only found herself losing hold of the branch, but also losing hold of the entire tree, and suddenly, the world moved away from beneath her feet and she was falling backwards, screaming as she went—

"UMPH!"

"I've got you!"

Sybil gasped and turned her head, her eyes widening and her cheeks reddening as she realized she had been caught—by none other than Sir Anthony's chauffeur.

_Tom Branson._

"It's alright, it's alright," the Irishman soothed as he quickly placed her on the ground, though her legs were rather wobbly after her close brush with death…or more than likely, bruising injury. She gripped his forearms for balance, and her breath caught in her throat as she felt the muscles beneath her fingers ripple. Oh my, so that wasn't _just_ the fabric of his livery jacket!

"I…I'm sorry," she mumbled, utterly embarrassed, as well as trying to calm her breathing after the sudden, unexpected moment of being held in his arms.

"It's alright," he murmured, a smile of tenderness and concern on his face, his hands still lingering on her shoulders, which was a good thing, as her legs still felt uncertain. "Are you alright?" She nodded, and put on a smile which she hoped looked more confident than she was feeling.

"If you don't mind me asking," he began, slowly letting his hands slip away from her shoulders. "What were you doing up in the tree?"

As if to answer his question, Alfred gave another indignant yowl from the branch he was clinging to, reminding them of his presence, as if Sybil needed a reminder. "My cat," she groaned, looking up at the ginger feline and giving it an annoyed glare. "He's stuck and won't come down."

Branson frowned as he looked up at the tree to where the cat was. "How did he get up there?"

She sighed. "He climbed," she explained.

He looked back at her, his frown growing deeper. "And…and he can't climb back down?"

Sybil answered with a groan.

Branson chuckled, and began to shrug off his livery jacket. "Right, well, maybe I'll have some better luck?" he murmured, before looking at her and giving her a wink. "Being Irish and all."

Sybil's cheeks heated up even more at his wink, and she quickly moved her eyes to the cat, praying that the Irishman didn't notice how pink her cheeks had become. He chuckled, before laying his jacket on a nearby tree stump, and approached tree, his hands on his hips as he gazed up at it, assessing how exactly to climb it.

"Oh please, you don't have to do that—I can have one of the gardeners fetch a ladder—"

"I don't mind," he answered, a reassuring smile spreading across his face as he gazed at her. Sybil felt her stomach do a strange sort of dance…and that dance seemed to grow as her eyes helplessly felt to his hands, which were busy rolling up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, providing her a glimpse of the muscle she had earlier felt.

She coughed then, and quickly looked down, praying her face wasn't as red as a tomato. But a realization dawned on her then, one that would certainly distract her from what he was doing (she prayed). "Um…if you don't mind me asking…" she began, repeating the very words he had spoken to her earlier. "Why are _you_ here?"

Branson paused and looked over his shoulder at her, and that cheeky humor he had shown her just a few seconds ago seemed to vanish, and now he looked rather nervous. "Um…" he began. "I…I was delivering a message, from Sir Anthony," he explained, though he looked rather sheepish at admitting it. "He wanted to let her Ladyship know that yes, he would be very honored to join you all for dinner again on Thursday."

Sybil's brow furrowed a little, though she continued to smile for politeness' sake. "Oh, well…that was awfully kind of you…" She recalled how he had done the same thing several days ago, after that fateful dinner when salt had been sprinkled over the pudding instead of sugar (or her potion). "Although you shouldn't have had to go through that trouble—"

"It's no trouble," he interrupted.

Sybil shook her head. "But Sir Anthony simply could have telephoned—"

"I told him I didn't mind delivering the message," he interrupted again, although his face paled momentarily, before he turned his head away and gave it a shake, his eyes looking anywhere but her face.

Sybil frowned. While she did find the Irishman's gesture to be very kind, and one could certainly argue it went "above and beyond" in the service to one's employer, something did seem…strange to her. Off, if you will. Not that she minded. No, not at all, in fact…in the few brief conversations she had with Sir Anthony's chauffeur…she did find that she rather liked Tom Branson.

"MMmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrroooooowwwwww!"

Sybil groaned, roused from her thoughts by Alfred's yowl. "I have a good mind to leave you up there!" she muttered to the cat.

Branson tried to suppress a chuckle. "It's alright, I'm coming," he said, before proceeding to dig his boot into the tree trunk and start his climb. "What's his name?" he asked her as he gripped the first branch and easily lifted himself off the ground as if he simply opening a door.

Sybil blinked several times, her eyes once again drawn to his muscular forearms, before finally realizing he was talking to her. "What? OH! Um…Alfred; it's Alfred," she quickly explained, inwardly growing at her silliness. What had come over her?

"Alfred," he repeated, before turning his head to the cat and calling out to it. "Just a little longer, Alfred; I'll be there soon," he told the cat as he climbed a little higher.

Alfred eyed the Irishman warily, and Sybil bit her lip with worry. The cat was very wary around strangers, and the last thing they needed was for poor Branson to fall and hurt himself. "Branson is a friend, Alfred!" she told the cat, blushing a little as she spoke those words. Her blush grew even more as Branson looked over his shoulder at her, and a warm smile spread across his handsome face. But he didn't say anything, he resumed his climb and Sybil watched with baited breath as he drew closer and closer to the frightened cat.

"Hey Alfred," Branson murmured, as he pulled himself up a little higher. The cat was starting to growl deep in his throat, and a little hiss escaped its lips as Branson reached forward. "Shhh, it's alright, I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, holding tightly to one of the branches as he carefully and slowly lifted his other arm out to the cat. "I'm going to help you; get you back to Lady Sybil—I know she misses you and would like you back on the ground safely…"

Alfred's fur seemed to stop bristling then at the mention of Sybil's name, and she held her breath as Branson reached forward again. _Oh please, Alfred, just let him pick you up so you both can get back down, safe and sound!_

"Come on…" Branson murmured, close enough that he could touch Alfred...

Sybil's hands were clasped against her chest.

"Got you!" Branson declared, his arm wrapping around the cat and pulling Alfred right off the branch, though the cat did manage to give a protesting screech as it was taken away from the branch to which it was clinging.

"OH! Oh well done!" Sybil let out a long sigh as she watched Branson pull Alfred against his chest, and then slowly began to make his descent. She moved to the edge of the tree, ready to take the cat from his arms as he got closer.

Branson was grinning, looking rather proud of himself. "It's been ages since I last climbed a tree!" he told her as he continued his way down. "I honestly didn't think I was going to be able to make it!"

"You were wonderful!" Sybil told him, smiling up at him and blushing again as he looked down at her, and…there seemed to be something in his eyes, she wasn't sure what exactly, but…the way he was looking at her sent a strange shiver down her back…

"Well, I'm glad I could be of service to you, milaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

"TOM!"

He wasn't paying attention then, because as he had been speaking to her, his foot slipped, and he was suddenly plummeting down, Alfred screeching as they went.

Sybil screamed and did the only thing she could think of, muttering some sort of enchantment to try and "cushion" his fall—

However, there was one pesky word in that enchantment that she always managed to get wrong, and in that moment Alfred leapt from Branson's arms…and practically floated to the ground as if he were being lowered by a piece of string. The cat landed softly on all four paws in a pile of leaves, and then leapt away just as poor Branson's body landed with a hard thud on that very pile.

"Oh no," Sybil gasped, before falling down on her knees at the chauffeur's side, her eyes wide with fear as poor Branson groaned in pain. "Oh Tom, Tom, I'm so sorry!" she blubbered, fear in her voice as she looked at his face, contorted and twisted in agony. He was hurt; he was hurt VERY badly from the looks of things, and when he tried to move, he hissed and his eyes widened, before closing as he gritted his teeth, as if fighting the urge to scream.

"Where?" Sybil asked, trying to stay calm and not become a blubbering mess. The last thing the poor man needed was for her weeping over his injuries. That would do no good, what he needed was…

…What he needed was a healing spell.

"Where does it hurt? Show me?" she pleaded, swallowing and trying to sound both calm and confidant, though if truth be told, she felt anything but.

"My back," he managed to gasp. "My…my lower back…I…I can't move…" he groaned, trying to twist his body a little, and then letting out a loud curse, as the pain pierced him everywhere.

Sybil nodded her head. "Wait right there, don't move," she told him.

Despite his pain, Branson did manage to let out a chuckle. "No…no harm in that, milady!"

She winced, both at her insensitive comment, and at the pain she could only imagine him feeling. She quickly rose to her feet and rushed over to the basket near the pond's edge, where she had been earlier, before Alfred attempted to make a mess of things. The bloody cat was sitting right by her basket, looking up at her with curious eyes. "This is all YOUR doing," she hissed at him, but he simply blinked, at her, before proceeding to groom his paws.

She grabbed the basket and brought it back to Branson's side. "Oh dear," she whispered to herself as she realized she would need him to lie on his stomach for her to do what she needed to do.

"W-w-w-what?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at her.

Sybil looked at him, and felt her heart squeeze with pity for what she would have to ask him to do. "I…we need you to roll over," she told him. "I have an herb here that will help you, but I need to apply it to your back, and…and I know it's going to be painful to move, but it will help, I promise—"

"Help me?" he asked her, his eyes full of trust, although she could also see some dread in their blue depths, no doubt anticipating the pain that he would soon be feeling when he moved.

Sybil nodded, moved to his side, and then placed her hands just under his back and shoulder so that she could push to roll him over. He looked at her and Sybil felt her heart break. "I'm sorry," she whispered. But he only smiled back at her, and then gave a determined nod, before gritting his teeth and sucking in a breath as she pushed.

"AHHHH!" he grunted loudly, as he was rolled over onto his stomach. He gasped and groaned and breathed heavily, glad that that was over with, and Sybil didn't hesitate, she immediately went to work, untucking his shirt from his trousers, ignoring the heat in her cheeks as his skin was revealed to her, red and bruised.

"Here?" she asked, touching his lower back with tentative fingers.

"Aye!" he grunted, hissing as her fingers made contact with the damaged muscle.

Sybil removed her hand and proceeded to look through her herb basket, until she found the very plant she needed. It was a strange little weed, not at all commonly found in Yorkshire, but one her grandmother had collected for their special herb garden that was specifically used for spell casting. It had a great many uses, but the use Sybil needed was one her cousin Isobel had taught her, one that she often used in her nursing.

"Soon, Tom, I promise," she told the Irishman as she carefully cut the stem open, happy to see a little strange, green liquid gently oozing out from the plant. "You're pain will be gone, soon…" So long as she didn't muck this up. But she couldn't, not for him; he was depending on her!

She closed her eyes, and began to let the green plant ooze drip onto his back. He gasped at the cold feeling, but Sybil didn't open her eyes, she was too busy concentrating on the magical incantation that Isobel had taught her, murmuring the words so softly under breath, her hand hovering over his back as she continued to drip the plant…

"…Sybil?"

She opened her eyes and looked down at his back.

The bruising remained.

Oh no. Oh no, what didn't she do right? She remembered those words, they weren't as difficult as other spells, and she had opened the plant just as she had been taught, and had used up all of the—

"My God…"

Her eyes flew to his face…and she watched as he groaned…before carefully and slowly…rising to his knees…and then rising to his feet.

"My God!" he repeated, taking a few steps, twisting his waist just so…his face contorting, as if waiting and expecting pain…

But none came.

He looked at her, his eyes wide with astonishment. "You…you did it…" he murmured, his voice in awe as he gazed at her. "Nothing…I mean, I don't feel anything!"

Sybil was looking just as shocked, but for altogether different reasons. Had she just performed a spell…_correctly? _And for the _first_ time!?

"How…?" he was still looking at her in wonder, but there was this smile on his face, one that brought back that strange, warm tingle that she had been feeling earlier when he had smiled at her, only this time she felt it all over, not just running down her spine. "How did you…? I mean…" he twisted his waist again, and then turned several circles, before bending down to touch his toes and rising back up to his full height. "Amazing!" he exclaimed, his grin only growing wider. "Whatever that herb was that you used…I…I mean, I can't explain it!"

Sybil couldn't help but grin back at him, and she felt pride swelling up in her chest as she looked at him, even laughing at the amazed joy on his face. _I did it…I actually performed a spell correctly!_ Perhaps there was hope for her yet? Maybe she wasn't the worst witch after all?

"It's like magic!"

Sybil paled at his words and her smile quickly vanished. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

If Branson knew what she really was, or knew that his words had unnerved her, he didn't show it. "That herb you used, what was it?" he asked, genuinely curious, but still just in total awe that he could move as well as he did, without any pain, after lying helplessly on the ground for several long, excruciating minutes.

"Oh, um…" she gestured behind herself to the herb garden. "Just…just something my cousin Isobel taught me…a medicinal herb." It wasn't a complete lie; her cousin had taught her about the herb. Branson didn't need to know that it was a combination of the herb _and_ the incantation she had murmured, that led to his full healing.

"Amazing," he murmured again, his eyes moving back to her from the herb garden. Sybil felt her heart stop as his eyes locked with hers. _"You're_ amazing…"

Oh gracious. That warmth she had felt seemed to become an inferno, and a strange tingle was spreading from her belly throughout her entire body. She had never felt anything like this before, and it always seemed to be whenever _he_ looked at her, or spoke with her…

"LADY SYBIL!"

Both she and Branson turned their heads as Carson, along with Mrs. Hughes and a few footmen came rushing towards them, Carson looking ready to pummel poor Branson if he thought the Irishman was bothering her.

"We heard screaming!" Mrs. Hughes gasped, once they reached them.

"WHY are _YOU_ still here!?" Carson demanded, glaring at Branson. "You delivered your message, you should have left ages ago!" he turned then to Sybil and asked through gritted teeth. "Has he been harassing you, milady?"

"NO!" Sybil was quick to defend poor Branson, stepping between the butler and Sir Anthony's chauffeur, shaking her head vehemently. "No, no, Branson was helping me!" she tried to explain. "Alfred," she gestured to the cat who seemed to be munching on some of the catnip that grew in the herb garden. "He climbed a tree and couldn't get down, and Branson was very kind to climb up and fetch him."

Carson didn't look satisfied. "But why the screaming, milady?"

Sybil blushed, and then quickly lowered her eyes, hoping a look of "embarrassment" would be enough to satisfy them that nothing horrible had taken place…or that she had performed magic of a sort on someone who didn't know she was a witch.

"Well…you see, Branson nearly lost his footing…" she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I…I screamed because I thought he was going to fall—"

"But we heard a man crying out too?" Mrs. Hughes asked, interrupting and looking at both of them with confusion.

"Oh…well um…it's rather embarrassing, actually…" Sybil was stalling, trying to think of a good excuse, though none could come to mind. _Granny can't know I used a spell on Branson! It violates our laws, though it's a silly law if you ask me; if someone is in need, why not use magic to help—?_

"The cat scratched me," Branson explained.

Sybil's eyes went wide and she looked over her shoulder at him. Was he…_aiding_ in her lie?

He kept his eyes locked with Carson's. "I must have frightened him when I nearly lost my footing, coming back down. He scratched me, and I cried out."

Carson's eyes narrowed. "Prove it."

"Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes hissed, looking more embarrassed than anything.

"Prove it!" Carson demanded, taking a threatening step towards the Irishman. "I hear Lady Sybil scream, and come out here to find you half-dressed, both of you covered with leafs as if…" he stopped, shaking his head at the thought. Mrs. Hughes looked both embarrassed as well as outraged at the suggestion, and Sybil felt absolutely mortified.

But Branson simply stepped forward, pulled back his shirt from his shoulder, and Sybil's eyes widened as she saw several dark, red scratches there, with a small amount of dried blood caked on the surface.

Carson's eyes widened and then he was blustering slightly. "Cover yourself up, man!" he grumbled, putting a hand on Sybil's shoulder to turn her away.

Mrs. Hughes groaned and rolled her eyes. "Are you satisfied?" she muttered through her teeth at the butler, before turning back to Branson and putting on an apologetic smile. "Won't you come inside? Mrs. Patmore, our cook, has a salve we can put on those scratches. And let us at least give you a cup of tea and some cake to thank you for your troubles!" Carson opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Hughes gave him such a glare out of the side of her eye, that he quickly shut it and stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the tree behind them.

"Thank you," Branson murmured, bowing his head slightly at the housekeeper. "But I'll be alright; in fact, as Mr. Carson here suggests," he glanced at the butler. "I should be on my way. But I am glad I was able to be of service to you, Lady Sybil…"

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat as Branson turned and looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, the ghost of smile on his face. She returned that same look, though she was still feeling absolutely embarrassed on his behalf, and blamed herself completely for the trouble she had nearly gotten him into. She was also perplexed; Alfred hadn't scratched him, had he? How did he get those marks?

Despite the butler's protests, Sybil insisted on walking Branson back to the car he had come in. Satisfied that there was a good distance between themselves and her "rescue party", she turned and whispered, "did Alfred really scratch you?"

Branson smiled and shook his head. "I scratched myself on some branches when I tumbled down," he explained.

"You did!?" she gasped. "But…but why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't really notice, to be honest," he murmured with a shrug of his shoulders. "The pain in my back distracted me from it."

Sybil bit her lip. She had grabbed her basket and was holding it, and quickly rummaged through it, finding another herb, a special sort of clover that Isobel had told her was wonderful for healing skin irritations.

"Take this," she told him, passing the little white plant to him. "Cut off of the blossoms, grind them up, add just a splash of warm water, and then spread it over the scratches. They'll heal faster that way."

He took the plant from her and smiled, before carefully stuffing it into a pocket on his uniform. "You know quite a bit about 'natural remedies'," he murmured, his eyes twinkling.

Sybil felt her heartbeat quicken. "Oh, I…it's nothing," she mumbled.

"It's not, 'nothing'," he disagreed, with a firm shake of his head. "It's a gift, actually."

_A gift._ Funny…she had never thought of it like that before…

They parted ways then, and for the rest of the day, that strange, warm tingle, seemed to linger, especially when her mind wandered off and began to think about his smile, as well as the words he had murmured to her.

It was clearly a distraction, however, because her grandmother muttered something to her one day, saying how she seemed to be day-dreaming when she should be preparing herself for the upcoming ball.

Oh Lord, the ball. As if she didn't have enough on her mind. She was more concerned about honoring her sisters and granting their wishes before All Hallows Eve than some silly masquerade! But she would never let her grandmother hear such words. Oh why did this blasted thing have to be at Downton? Clearly it was her grandmother's doing; clearly she had found some way of convincing not just the Yorkshire coven, but the High Council and the Grand Warlock in allowing them to have the ball there, at Downton, rather than in London where it was usually kept. What was her grandmother up to?

She wandered back to the pond the next day, hoping to find some solitude amongst the toads there…and was shocked to see Branson of all people, sitting on a nearby stump, surrounded by her amphibian friends!

He wasn't alone, either. Alfred was there too! But the cat was rubbing against his trouser legs, demanding attention, which Branson chuckled, petting him while at the same time murmuring words of assurance to the little creatures that were tentatively poking their heads out from the grass and lily pads, assuring them that they were safe.

"He just wants to play," Branson explained to the toads. "To pounce and chase, that's all. But you," he said to the cat. "You need to be careful; your big paws could hurt them, and that's why they run—or hop, rather, away from you."

The snap of a twig alerted him that someone else was near, and Sybil realized that it was her foot that caused the sound.

"Milady!" he gasped, rising to his feet, the toads scattering. Alfred was actually giving her a look of annoyance. "I…I'm sorry, I didn't see—"

"No, no, it's alright!" she assured, blushing furiously, but also looking at him with curious eyes…and a small smile. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just…" her smile began to grow. "I just…you speak to them as if they were people," she giggled, making a gesture with her hands to the toads that once again poked their heads up and out from their hiding places, and seemed to be looking back and forth between the both of them with interest.

"Oh, well, I um…" he looked embarrassed, but Sybil shook her head, wanting to assure him there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

"No, no, please, it's not a 'bad' thing, not at all; I do it too, actually!" She felt her face grow very warm at this revelation…but oddly enough, not from embarrassment. She didn't feel she needed to be embarrassed around Tom Branson. Rather…she felt she could be completely herself with him.

He seemed to smile then, and bowed his head slightly, looking a little sheepish. "As a child, I always enjoyed retreating to the woods, and…being surrounded by nature," he explained. "I…I confess, I didn't have a great many friends, so…I would talk to the squirrels, the rabbits—"

"The toads?" she giggled, smiling down at the little creatures which she had always felt a close connection with, ever since her tenth birthday.

He chuckled and nodded. "Aye, the toads," he murmured, his eyes warm and kind as they gazed back at her.

It was then that Sybil realized that he wasn't dressed in his livery, but rather…in somewhat mismatched suit, though despite that, she thought he looked very fine. _And handsome…_

Her face felt very hot.

"Did you come to deliver another message?" she asked, shaking her head and telling her cheeks to cool.

He seemed to blush at this question and he lowered his eyes for a moment. "Um…no, I…I um…" he swallowed and looked around at everything but her. "I um…today is my half-day," he explained. "I…I was on my way to the village, actually, but…but…I was passing just over there…" he pointed at the lane that ran along Downton's property, near the pond. "And I saw Alfred here chasing the toads—"

"Oh, Alfred," she groaned, giving the cat an annoyed look. "How many times have I told you not to do that!?"

The cat simply yawned at her, to which Branson chuckled. "Ah, don't be mad. I really think he just wants to play with them," he rubbed the cat's head, and Alfred gave a very loud purr of approval.

Amazing; her cat never seemed to like anyone other than herself...but clearly he had found a friend in Tom Branson.

"I'm sorry, though," he apologized then, breaking Sybil from her thoughts.

"Sorry?" she asked, looking at him with confusion.

"I…I suppose in some ways this would be considered trespassing…"

"OH! Oh no, no, I…" she shook her head. "You meant no—_mean_ no harm," she corrected, blushing deeply at the smile he gave her. "I'm just glad that…that I ran into you."

His face suddenly brightened at her words. "You are?"

_Am I?_ Yes, yes she was. She barely knew him, but…but she liked Tom Branson. She liked him very much, actually. "I am," she assured him, smiling and feeling strangely confident. She moved over to where he sat and quickly made herself at home on another stump, shaking her head when he offered her his jacket to sit on, though she found the gesture very gentlemanly of him.

They talked for what felt like hours then. She asked him to tell her more about his childhood, about Ireland, as she was always curious about other places. He painted beautiful pictures with his words of green fields and lush forests and rocky peaks, of meadows lined with stone fences and flocks of white, wooly sheep grazing in the pastures just beyond, as well as the bustling city of Dublin where he had come from, before coming to England to find work. And even though he didn't say the words, Sybil could tell how deeply he loved his homeland…and how much he missed it.

He asked her similar questions, though of course she had to be careful with how much information she gave. Her life wasn't half as exciting as his, but she did her best, talking about her family, her sisters mainly, and the relationship they had. Soon the conversation shifted again, this time to the subject of books, something they both dearly loved, and then interestingly, to the subject of politics. Sybil had always been fascinated with the suffrage movement, but due to her studies (of this she had to be vague) she had never had the opportunity to "get involved" though she dearly wished she could have been. Branson then told her about some rallies he had attended back in Ireland, both for women's rights, as well as in favor of Irish independence. He then revealed that he was a "socialist", and Sybil listened, utterly fascinated, as he told her about some of his beliefs, finding that she agreed with practically everything, that they mimicked many of her own beliefs, she just hadn't been aware of it.

"SYBIL?"

Edith's voice brought her back, suddenly, to the present, and Sybil realized, by the setting sun, that Carson no doubt had rung the dressing gong, and they were all meant to be in the house, getting ready for dinner.

Once again, both she and Branson parted ways; she apologized for keeping him from the village, but he shook his head, telling her that sitting and talking with her had been far more of a pleasure than spending an hour or two in the pub. She blushed deeply at his words, because…she could tell by the look in his eyes that he meant it.

She didn't see him again until Thursday night, when Sir Anthony joined them for dinner again. This time, she was banished from the kitchen, and her potion would once again have to wait. Yet it wasn't so bad; she watched from across the table as her sister and Sir Anthony talked, and she could clearly see that yes, the two of them had a great deal in common—perhaps more than they realized? _Oh Edith, he really would be perfect for you, _Sybil found herself thinking. _He's certainly a great deal more worthy of your affections than Patrick!_ She did notice that her sister blushed a few times when Sir Anthony complimented her, and he did seem to smile and gaze at her sister a great deal more than anyone else at the table. However, they both seemed to be moving awfully slow with this whole "courtship", if one could call it that, and Sybil sighed, wondering if either of them would ever take a step and move "beyond" polite conversation.

When dinner was finished, instead of going into the drawing room with her mother, sisters, and grandmother, she excused herself, planning to retreat to her room and look over the spell book, wondering if there was another way to give Sir Anthony the love potion that didn't involve him eating something that looked like sugar…or salt, in his case, but paused when she realized that with Sir Anthony here…that meant Tom Branson was here too!

So instead of retreating to her room like she had said, she found herself wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and retreating to the garage, where he was reading the newspaper by the light of a single electric bulb.

He glanced up, and instead of looking surprised, he simply smiled as if this was a common practice between them, her coming and greeting him at the garage. "You're very late…" he murmured. "Won't they worry?"

She giggled and shook her head. "They're all so excited, they won't even care where I am," she told him, walking over to join him by the car he was leaning against. "Anything interesting?" she asked, looking over his shoulder at the newspaper.

He didn't answer her right away, and Sybil looked up, a small gasp escaping her lips as she realized just how close the two of them were standing. His eyes seemed drawn to her lips, and Sybil couldn't deny, her own eyes were drawn to his too. But he cleared his throat and shook his head, breaking the trance, and the both took a step away from each other.

An awkward silence seem to fall over the garage, and Sybil wondered if perhaps it would be better for her to return to the house, though she didn't want to; in truth, she had found that she missed Tom Branson when he wasn't near…

"Oh!" he broke the silence, and Sybil watched with curious eyes as he removed something from his livery jacket. "I got you these…"

Pamphlets? She took the pieces of paper and realized that it was information about the newest laws affecting women, their right to vote, and how despite this slight "victory" for the suffrage movement, many women involved with the cause were still protesting and calling out Parliament's injustice on not giving equal voting rights to women under thirty or who didn't own property.

"Thank you…" Sybil whispered, her hands reverently holding the pamphlets as if they were the greatest treasure a person could be offered. She looked up at him and smiled, moved by the gift and blinking back the sudden tears that clouded her vision. "Oh Branson, thank you so much!"

She almost hugged him, almost threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled his body to her own for a warm embrace, but as she moved to do so, he turned to face her fully, and once again, she realized just how close they were standing…and how their mouths only seemed to be a breath apart.

"Tom," he whispered, his eyes flicking down to her lips.

"W-w-what?" she asked, her own eyes doing the same.

"Tom," he murmured. "My name…you…you called me that when I had fallen from the tree; I…I liked it, hearing you say my name."

She remembered. She remembered calling him "Tom" as if they were both each other's equals, rather than by the name she was supposed to call him, the same way she was supposed to call Carson or Pratt or her father's valet or her mother's lady's maid. But it did seem silly, in a sense…calling her friend by such a name. And…and she did like to think of Tom Branson as her friend.

"And you called me 'Sybil'," she murmured back. And she had liked it, very much.

But before anything further could be said on the matter, the sound of feet scraping across the gravel drive alerted them that someone was approaching, and Sybil made quick use of the garage's side door, slipping out before whatever footman had come to alert Branson—_Tom_, that Sir Anthony was ready to leave, could see her.

And that had been the last she had seen him.

* * *

But all that was going to change, now. Now, _he_ would be the one to drive her to York, and in many ways she was excited to be reunited with her friend again! She had missed him, very much. She was eager to tell him all about the pamphlets he had given her, which she had read so many times, she was sure she had them memorized.

But there was also a part of her that was, for some strange reason, was feeling a little nervous. There last encounter together, in the Downton garage, had been a trifle…awkward. She had found herself rather fascinated with his lips…

She shook her head. Now was not the time to let her mind wander to…confusing topics. She needed to stay focused on the task at hand, which was, as her grandmother so "kindly" reminded her, that she had exactly two weeks left to finish her spells and present both her sisters with their fulfilled wishes. And while yes, the "true purpose" of her going to York had to do with her frock for the All Hallows Eve ball, there was also a special spice shop that she wanted to visit, one that she had been to once with Isobel, that she hoped carried the herbs that were not growing in the tiny Downton herb garden.

Carson had told her that Branson—_Tom_, she reminded herself, would be there in a half-hour's time. However, he was there in roughly fifteen minutes, and much to Sybil's delight, he hadn't come alone.

Sir Anthony was there, as well, and he smiled and bowed his head to her, before asking if her sister was present. "I thought, since Branson would be driving you to York, I might pop by and offer Lady Edith a spin, as we were talking about cars the other day—"

"CARSON!" Sybil interrupted, causing the butler to nearly topple over by the shrill tone of her voice. "Please go and fetch Lady Edith at once!"

She couldn't stop grinning at the good fortune of this moment, as she left Sir Anthony in the hall, and approached her father's Renault, where Tom was already standing at attention, holding the door open, looking straight forward as a chauffeur was supposed to do, and yet Sybil saw his eyes twinkle and a smile lift at the corners of his mouth as she approached, and she couldn't help but smile back and murmur a quick, "Hello, _Tom_," which was followed by a giggle as she realized that her use of his name did catch him by surprise.

"Milady," he murmured back, taking her hand and helping her into the car. He shut the door and then climbed back behind the steering wheel, glancing over his shoulder at her and murmuring, "_Sybil_," before winking at her, and starting the car.

Sybil giggled again and soon the two of them were off. Once they were a good distance from the house, Sybil didn't hesitate to lean forward and tell him everything she had read from the pamphlets he had given her. He chuckled and asked her a few questions, which she happily answered, before asking a few questions of her own, glad to hear more insight from someone who knew a bit more about the subject. Soon those questions shifted from women's rights, to other topics, from the gap between the aristocracy and the poor—Tom was quick to say that he did think Sir Anthony a decent man and a fair employer, but it wasn't the individual he disapproved of, but the class in which he was a part of, or rather, the decisions of that class. And though he didn't say it, Sybil knew that she was a part of that class as well.

But she wasn't insulted by his words. Rather, she found herself nodding in agreement to what he was saying. Indeed, there was a great deal of unfairness, not to mention she never cared for the unspoken rule that people from one class or another couldn't be friends. She considered many of the servants at Downton to be her friends, though she knew her grandmother would pale if she ever heard her say such things. Tom Branson was certainly her friend; a very…dear friend…

"Tom…" she interrupted. "If you could do or be anything, what would it be?"

He seemed a little surprised by her question, but he didn't hesitate to answer. "Well, I won't always be a chauffeur," he chuckled. "And I do rather like politics; God knows I talk about it enough."

Sybil beamed at this. "I do hope you go into politics! It's a fine ambition," she declared.

His smile faded slightly. "Ambition or dream?" he murmured. There was doubt in his voice, and that made Sybil sad. Didn't he realize what a gift he had with words? He was very inspiring; she could listen to him talk for hours on end…and not just because of his accent, though she did enjoy that too, she could not deny…

"Have you ever thought about writing?" she asked.

"Writing?" this certainly seemed to surprise him.

She grinned. "Yes, I think you would be a wonderful writer! Sharing your thoughts with people everywhere, just as you have done with me; journalism perhaps!"

"Journalism?" he repeated the word, but she could see a smile slowly spread across his mouth as he whispered it to himself a second time. He wasn't dismissing the idea, he was thinking about it…and it pleased her to see him taking the idea to heart. "What about you?" he asked, catching her by surprise. "What do you want to do?"

No one had ever asked her that before. Perhaps because…well, she was expected to fulfill her duties as the Crawley family witch, until she had a daughter of her own, someday, passing the bloodline and tradition onward.

But the truth was, even though she had been studying and working so hard since she had been given the "gifts" of her magical heritage, she didn't really like being a witch. There was nothing she could really do about it, though; she was what she was. But she wished she could be like Isobel, and use her powers for a purpose.

And so it came as a great surprise to her, when without another thought, she answered, "A nurse."

He looked over his shoulder at her. "A nurse?"

Sybil blushed, but nodded her head. Isobel was a nurse, and she was able to use her knowledge of herbs and healing remedies to help others. Yes, she greatly admired her cousin…and she still remembered how the spell she had performed on Tom Branson had not only worked, but worked the first time! _And he had called me amazing, afterwards…_

"I think you'd make a wonderful nurse," his voice broke through her thoughts. She looked up at him and felt that strange tingle wash over her again. He looked over his shoulder again and gave her a smile. "You would," he repeated. "You certainly patched me up perfectly!"

She giggled then and lowered her eyes to her hands, folded and clasped on her lap. Oh if only she could; if only she could do what she wanted and follow her heart to be something like that.

"In fact…"

She lifted her eyes again, her brow furrowing at his words. "In fact?"

Tom turned again. "I'd like to show you something, if I may, milady?"

Sybil's curiousness grew. "Alright," she nodded her assent, wondering what it was he was going to show her.

They entered York then, and he continued to drive the car through the city, past the various shops she was familiar with, both magical and non. Soon they were passing streets she wasn't as familiar with, not that she ever felt herself in danger or anything. She didn't think it was possible to feel like that when she was in Tom Branson's presence.

The car came to a stop just outside a very majestic looking stone structure, one that Sybil had never visited, and yet…she had a good feeling she knew where they were. "Is this…?"

Tom nodded, a smile spreading across his handsome face. "Aye," he answered, already knowing what she was going to ask. "There's a training college for nurses here," he went on to explain. "I know, because several of the maids at Locksley told me about how a few relatives of theirs served as auxiliary nurses during the War, and came here to train."

Sybil's mouth fell open as she took in the stone walls and buildings, imagining all the knowledge that these imbedded in these rocks. She closed her eyes and grinned as she imagined herself walking amongst its halls, not as a visitor, but as a student, a woman training to be a nurse. _A woman, who could be whatever she wanted, and not have her future dictated to her by others, linage or not…_

"Would you like to walk around?"

She opened her eyes and blushed as she found herself wondering how long Tom had been staring at her. But his face held no judgment, simply tenderness, and she quickly found herself nodding in agreement, eager to explore what she could of this place.

Oh what a pair the two of them made, she thought to herself with a smile. Even though she was dressed simply (simply for her) she knew she still stood out as a "Lady", whereas he was looking very fine and handsome in his green livery. A mismatched couple, indeed; yet they had more in common than the surface suggested.

"Oh Tom, thank you so much for bringing me here!" she told him as they passed a stone archway. Sybil looked out at the grassy courtyard where rehabilitating soldiers were going about some morning exercises, once again imagining herself as a nurse, working and helping such men, the way her cousin did. She turned to smile up at her friend, but gasped as she noticed he had removed his hat and was clutching it in a rather awkward manner, his hands fidgeting nervously, his face pale and there appeared to be sweat beading on his brow. "Tom?" she asked, looking concerned. The man looked as if he was going to be ill!

He took a deep breath, and then stepped closer to her, closing the gap between them until they were only a few inches apart. Sybil's throat went dry, and that warmth she had felt earlier grew even hotter. "Sybil…" his voice was deeper, huskier, and his accent sounded thicker as well. She looked up at him and swallowed, her heart beating erratically as she gazed into his eyes, their blueness absolutely breathtaking…

"Tom?" she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. Something wasn't right…

"I..." he paused and closed his eyes, taking another deep breath, before continuing. "I know I shouldn't say such things…and I've told myself and told myself you're too far above me—"

Wait, what…what was happening? What was he saying to her?

"But the world is changing—the world _has_ changed and continues to change! And I'll make something of myself, I promise—"

"I know you will!" she interrupted, unnerved by his words (and the passion she could hear in his voice) but wanting to assure him that she did believe, truly, that he could be "more" than what he was, that he could do and be anything, she never doubted that for a second!

"Then bet on me!" he declared, and Sybil gasped as suddenly…she realized what it was he was saying, or rather, what it was he was _asking_. "And if your family cast you off, it won't be forever; they'll come around, and until they do, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness!"

He looked so hopeful. And she was so confused. How…where…where had this come from? This passionate declaration? They barely knew each other, and yet the look he was giving her, it was full of so much hope and so much love—

Love.

_LOVE!_

Her eyes went wide as her mind played back the events of the past few weeks, to when she first met Tom Branson, on that cold night when she had brought him tea and she was feeling frustrated and miserable because salt had been mistaken for sugar, which in essence was supposed to be her potion, for Sir Anthony's pudding. Daisy had given her the tea to take to Tom; Daisy had prepared the tea, adding milk and sugar to it…

Only it hadn't been sugar Daisy had put in.

Oh no…

She looked up at him and felt her heart shatter as it all became clear.

Tom Branson had accidently consumed her potion. And now believed himself _in love_ with her!

Tom Branson was bewitched.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the semi-lateness, but here is the next chapter! And it gets a bit emotional, but it's all leading up for THE CONCLUSION (which I hope to publish on Halloween!) Hope you enjoy, and thank you to everyone for their kind feedback and comments! Please leave a review! Thank you again for reading!_

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Sybil fidgeted uncomfortably under the scrupulous stare of her grandmother. Violet simply sat across from her, her hands folded and resting atop the desk as she assessed all the information her youngest granddaughter had just shared. "So…if I understand correctly, you're telling me that…you cast a love spell on Sir Anthony Strallan's chauffeur?"

Sybil groaned and shook her head. "No, Granny, I didn't cast the spell on Sir Anthony's chauffeur, not intentionally at least. The spell was for Sir Anthony!"

Violet's eyes widened. "You made a love spell for Sir Anthony Strallan?" Violet leaned forward, her brow furrowed in confusion. "For…_yourself?"_

"NO!" Sybil shook her head, staring at her grandmother as if she were mad. Had she not heard anything she had told her?

"Well, I must say that's a relief," Violet murmured. "Nothing against Sir Anthony, he's a fine gentleman, but he's a bit old for you my dear—"

"Not for me Granny, for Edith!" Sybil hissed, trying her hardest to remain calm, though with her grandmother, that always seemed to be difficult.

Violet lifted an eyebrow at this revelation. "For Edith?" she repeated. She pursed her lips as she pondered this. "While the gap between your sister and Sir Anthony isn't as great as it is between him and yourself, he's still a bit—"

"Oh Granny, stop!" Sybil groaned, not being able to suppress the roll of her eyes. "First of all, Sir Anthony is a perfectly amiable gentleman and would really be perfect for Edith! But the point is," Sybil paused, taking a deep breath, "that love spell was to be my gift to Edith, and…and it would have worked perfectly, had it not…" she bit her lip, bracing herself for what was to come next.

Violet frowned. "Had it not…?"

Sybil sighed. "Had it not been for…for salt, being mistaken for my potion," she mumbled at last.

Violet looked confused for a moment. "Salt being mistaken for your potion?" But then realization finally dawned on the woman, and her eyes went wide with shock. _"THE PUDDING!?"_ she gasped.

Sybil winced at her grandmother's shrill tone.

Violet groaned as she sat back in her chair, looking at Sybil and shaking her head. "Good heavens. Well, now I know the true reason behind why that pudding tasted so horribly," she sighed and waved her hand in the air dismissively. "But that still doesn't explain your dilemma with the chauffeur."

Sybil blushed and looked down at her own hands, her palms sweaty as her fingers nervously fidgeted in her lap. "Just as salt was mistaken for my potion…so too was my potion mistaken for sugar, when Daisy made his tea."

"Oh, well now I've heard everything," Violet muttered, pushing herself up and away from the desk and began to pace back and forth by the window in her study. "A love spell, designed for Sir Anthony Strallan, as a gift to your sister…that was accidently given to his driver, and now the chauffeur is waxing poetic and declaring that his heart is yours."

_And he asked me to marry him,_ Sybil thought to herself, but decided to keep that detail from her grandmother. She swallowed and looked down again, back at her hands, hands which only a few hours ago, had been held in his…cradled within his gloved fingers.

Tom Branson had asked her to "bet on him", had told her that he would "devote every waking minute to her happiness", and even though he was the unknowing victim to a terrible spell, Sybil did find herself, for a moment, believing that he would. And perhaps that was what hurt the most about his sweet declaration? That she believed it possible; that for a moment, she wanted it to be true because she truly believed if she were to marry anyone, Tom Branson _would be_ the perfect man because…because he seemed to understand her in a way that no one, not even members of her own family who had known her her entire life, seemed to understand her.

_But it's not real,_ Sybil reminded herself. None of it was. Tom didn't love her, not really. He was under a spell! Which meant that all those things he had said to her before weren't real either; how could they be?

Oh what a fool she was, what a mad little fool. She truly was the worst witch this family had ever seen.

Tears began to sting her eyes as she recalled the torturous moments earlier that day, after his beautiful declaration…

_She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as she replayed his words over and over._

_ "I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness…"_

_ The look in his eyes was so intense, so powerful, so emotional. There could be no doubt that he was speaking to her as a man in love. But there could also be no doubt that the reason he was in love with her was because of that bloody spell. Apparently it did work, but it had worked on the wrong person. And poor Tom was confused and thought himself head over heels in love with her, so in love that he was asking her to marry him, regardless of the fact that they were of different classes and such a marriage would be scorned upon by her family. He didn't care! He loved her…and wanted her to be his wife._

_ …But it wasn't real. _

_"Tom…" she whispered, not quite sure what to say to all this. Her eyes looked down at the ground, a lump was lodged in her throat and she was having difficulty with swallowing. _It's not real, it's not real,_ she kept telling herself over and over. And if it wasn't real, that meant the rejection she was about to give him shouldn't hurt as much as it seemed to. But it did, and it made her heart break…_

_ "I…" she managed to swallow past the lump. "I…I'm terribly flattered…" she began, wanting to be gentle, but even she winced at her words._

_ He sucked in a breath, and oh Lord, it was a painful sound. "Please don't say that," he murmured, and Sybil lifted her eyes, feeling tears prick the back of them as she looked at the fallen face of the man who in the short time she had known him, had become her dearest friend. _

_ "Why not?" she stupidly asked, mainly because she didn't know what else to say._

_He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "Because that's something posh people say when they're getting ready to say 'no'."_

_She had never thought of it before, but yes, she could see that. She swallowed again and looked down at her feet once more. A chill wind came up around them, but Sybil wasn't sure if the cause for her shivering was due to the wind, or the chill that had fallen upon the both of them. _

_ She took a step back, and found herself clutching her coat a little tighter to her body. "I…" she couldn't look at him, she looked everywhere but into his face, because she couldn't stand seeing the sadness in his eyes…and knowing she was the cause of it. "I want to go," she finally muttered, and before he could say anything, she quickly moved past him and began retracing their steps, moving at a brisk pace back to the parked Renault._

_If she could have her way, she would have told him to drive her straight back to Downton. She needed to see her grandmother, and though she was dreading the lecture she would no doubt receive when the truth was learned, at the same time she wanted to find a way to free Tom from this curse; she couldn't stand to see him in such pain. _

_But they had come to York for a specific reason, and Tom had once again become Branson, the chauffeur, resuming his expressionless face and straight forward stance, as any good chauffeur would. If he spoke to her at all (and he only did so to reply to something she had said) he used "milady", not Sybil. She immediately began missing the sound of her name on his lips, but she knew it was for the best, the best for both of them!_

_ …But it didn't feel that way._

_ Somehow, by some miracle, she managed to accomplish the things she had come to York to accomplish, from seeing about her frock for the ball, to getting the spices she required for her spells for Edith and Mary, but unlike before, when her time in the car with Tom was not only lovely, but wonderfully warm and pleasant and…and natural—now it was the opposite. It was cold, and awkward,_ _and the very opposite of natural. Before, things felt right. But apparently that had all been an illusion, and it broke Sybil's heart to realize that._

We're not even really friends, because…because that's another illusion of the spell, too.

_The drive back to Downton was the worst. Neither one of them spoke the entire time, but there was this horrible, awkward air that hung between them. In his mind, he had declared his feelings to her, and she had rejected them. In her mind, he had revealed that everything between them wasn't real, just the result of a blasted spell, one that she hated with a passion. Perhaps it was just as well that poor Sir Anthony and Edith had been spared from her magic? No one deserved this kind of heartache._

_ Tom obediently opened the door for her upon their return, and Sybil swallowed as she climbed out, biting her lip and once again telling herself not to look at him…to just climb out of the car and run into the house to find her grandmother to fix things._

_…But she did look at him. He had offered her his hand to help her down, just as any good chauffeur would do, and Sybil did take it, and glanced out of the corner of her eye at him, her heart breaking even more as she saw the hard way his jaw was set, his eyes like stone as he coldly gazed straight ahead…and yet his fingers still managed to squeeze her hand as he helped her down, a gesture that wasn't cold at all, but…filled with such longing._

_She mumbled a quick thank you, and then retreated as fast as she could, only to be briefly stopped by Edith, who was positively glowing, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright as rushed to tell Sybil all about the lovely drive she and Sir Anthony had taken together. Sybil wanted to be happy for her sister, truly, but all she could think about was poor Tom—no, poor _Branson_, and how he was suffering under delusions of "love" because of her. _

"…AH! Here we are!" Violet declared, breaking through Sybil's memories. She quickly wiped her eyes, not wanting her grandmother to see the tears. She looked up and took notice that her grandmother had been looking at the Crawley family spell book and had apparently found the counter spell needed to break the curse.

Curse; yes, how aptly put. Tom Branson was cursed, and the sooner she could relieve him of it, the better, for everyone. His heart was suffering because of her carelessness, and now her heart was suffering too, but she had no one to blame but herself. The only problem was…would she find relief when the curse was broken? Or would she continue to suffer? She didn't want to dwell on the thought, but she had a feeling the latter was more correct.

"Do you have all these things?" Violet asked Sybil, thrusting the spell book into her hands and pointing to a list of ingredients. Sybil's eyes scanned them and nodded her head; the counter-potion to the spell was, in many ways, a mirror copy of the love potion she had made. The only big difference was that instead of absorbing moonlight, the potion needed to absorb sunlight—something, her grandmother muttered, about "one's eyes being opened to the clear light of day."

The only problem was that they had barely had any sunny days over the past few weeks, and sunlight was a key ingredient. Which meant…it could be _days_, before she could give Tom the potion. Oh no, how much longer would the poor man have to suffer?

"Well, don't just stand there! Get to work!" Violet ordered. "We can't have a love-sick chauffeur just…show up at the house."

Sybil made a hasty exit and quickly retreated to the herb garden to gather her ingredients for the spell. However, as she knelt in the shade of the tree—_the very tree which Tom had climbed to rescue Alfred_—and as she threw herbs into her basket—_herbs that had been used to help heal his injuries_—and as the toads hopped around her—_the very creatures she had seen Tom talking to when she found him that one day_—it reminded Sybil that all those moments had occurred _after_ he had consumed her potion…which meant that all those "messages" he had come to deliver, and his decision to pass by Downton on his half-day had been "excuses" to come by and possibly see her…but only because he was suffering under the effects of the curse, and nothing more.

_ None of it was real..._

Alfred had found her in the herb garden, curled up into a ball and crying, mourning for the loss of her dear friend. He tried to soothe her with a sympathetic purr and a nudge of his furry head against her hands. But it was all in vain; she was inconsolable…

* * *

"Sybil?"

Sybil looked up from the spell book as the door to her room creaked open and Mary peeked inside. She smiled at her oldest sister, though it was difficult considering the events of the day.

"Are you feeling well, darling? You left so quickly after dinner—"

"I…I just have a lot on my mind," she mumbled, looking down at the spell book once more. She never really talked with her sisters about her dealings with being a witch. While they naturally knew because she was their sister, they also knew that talk between witches and non-magical folk was not something to be openly discussed. Still, Mary was well aware that this upcoming ball that Downton was playing host for was a very important event in the life of her baby sister.

"Don't let Granny bully you," Mary sighed, coming in and sitting down on the foot of Sybil's bed. "I do feel sorry for Mama, I confess; Papa is staying out of it, which is probably wise, but I sometimes wonder if Granny needs reminding that she isn't Countess of Grantham anymore?"

Sybil couldn't help but giggle softly at her sister's words. She looked at Mary and noticed…something was different about her.

"You didn't miss much, I would say," Mary sighed, continuing the one-sided conversation. "Just like at dinner, Edith couldn't stop talking about her drive with Sir Anthony Strallan," Mary rolled her eyes, more for effect than any other reason.

Sybil gave her a look and shook her head. "Don't be mean, I happen to like Sir Anthony, and I think he and Edith would be very well suited for one another."

Mary laughed and nodded her head. "Yes, perhaps you are right. Heaven knows he would be a vast improvement to our cousin Patrick."

Sybil frowned at the mention of her cousin's name. "Do you think Edith still loves him? He's kept her dangling for so long, I keep hoping that she'll truly realize that he's a louse and not waste any more time on him."

Mary's eyebrows rose at this. "Those are harsh words from the one whom Mrs. Hughes is always calling 'the sweetest spirit'," to which Sybil replied with a poke of her tongue. "I honestly don't know how Edith feels about Patrick anymore. She and I were never that close; she's much more likely to open up to you than me, so perhaps you should ask her?"

Perhaps. She had hoped that when Sir Anthony had invited Edith to go for a drive with him, that that would seal everything and she wouldn't have to worry about that wretched love spell (curse).

"Speaking of Patrick, Papa received another letter from him today," Mary groaned. "Matthew had a look at it. Patrick continues to go on and on about how Papa should invest in this silly Canadian railway company, but Matthew isn't so sure it's a wise idea. Even Mr. Murray seems hesitant about the matter, but Papa isn't as convinced; he thinks that since Patrick will inherit, that perhaps he should have a say in where the money goes."

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes. "It's as if he can't wait to become the next Earl of Grantham!" she muttered. She looked up at her sister and reached for her hand. "If only the entail could go to you; you'd make such a fine countess."

Mary smiled at her sister's words. "You're a darling and dear," she murmured sweetly. "But we both know there's only one way I could become Countess of Grantham, and as much as I love Downton…" she sighed and shook her head.

Sybil couldn't deny she was glad to hear this, and squeezed her sister's hand again…and then frowned, as she swore she felt something beneath Mary's glove. What on earth…?

Mary seemed to notice Sybil's look of confusion and took a deep breath. "Sybil…there's something I want to tell you that I haven't told anyone, even Papa…" Slowly, Mary began to pull off her glove…and Sybil watched with widening eyes as a diamond ring was revealed on her sister's finger.

"MARY!" Sybil gasped, looking into her sister's eyes for confirmation, before bursting into a joyous giggle as her sister blushed and nodded her head. "Oh…oh congratulations!" Sybil laughed, throwing her arms around her sister's shoulders. "Oh Mary, when? WHEN did it happen? And where? WHERE did he do it? Oh gracious, did he get down on one knee?"

Mary couldn't stop giggling at her sister's endless questions. Sybil smiled at the sound, glad that she was one of the few people (she and Matthew) who got to see her sister like this. "Earlier today; we were walking the grounds, and…and we passed by our tree, you know the one," she blushed. "And yes, he did get down on one knee, and…" she let out a long, happy sigh. "It was perfect. I couldn't have imagined anything better, really."

Sybil felt tears prick her eyes again, though for different reasons this time. She was glad to have something happy to cry about for a change. "Oh Mary…oh Mary, I'm so happy for you, for _both_ of you," she embraced her sister again, clinging to her tightly.

"Thank you, darling," Mary murmured, hugging Sybil back. "This was why I wanted you to know before everyone else. I know Papa will be pleased; he's always liked Matthew…but," she sighed. "Not that I think Mama will be displeased, she likes Matthew too, but…I know both she and Granny were hoping that somehow the entail could be broken…" she sighed and shook her head.

Sybil made a face at this, mainly because she found herself agreeing with mother and grandmother about how Mary should be their father's "heir" and inherit Downton and everything with it. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair that girls were denied such things for simply being girls. "Matthew would make a better earl than Patrick," she muttered for Mary's ears only.

Mary's eyes widened, but soon found herself laughing and nodding her head. "Perhaps so," she sighed. "But it's not meant to be."

Sybil chewed on her lip and gazed at her sister for a moment. "Are you truly happy, Mary? I know that sounds like a mad question, but…I also know how badly you wanted to be the next countess."

Mary sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "I will not deny that…yes, for a long, long time that was what I wanted, more than anything. And yes, I am sure that's part of the reason why Matthew waited so long before proposing to me, because sadly, he wanted to be sure that when he asked, I wouldn't say 'no' because I was more in love with the idea of one day being mistress of Downton." She opened her eyes then and looked back at Sybil, and once again, Sybil had that blessed moment of seeing her older sister's vulnerability. "But I would resent myself more, and regret my life, if I chose to marry Patrick simply so I could call myself 'Countess of Grantham' someday, rather than marry the man who I both love and respect, and who I believe loves and respects me, and…as much as I hate to say it…live out the rest of my days in Manchester, than here."

Both sisters burst out laughing at this little revelation, and Sybil felt warmth wash over here, so glad that her sister had, in both their eyes, made the right decision. Still, while she wished she could make Mary's dream come true, her sister was telling her that true happiness wasn't a title or pile of bricks; true happiness was with someone who loved and respected, someone like Matthew, someone like Tom—

Tom.

Her cheeks felt very hot then.

Good heavens; was she…was she…?

"Darling?"

She looked up at her sister, and Mary was looking back at her with some concern.

Sybil wet her lips before speaking. "When…when did you know that…that you loved Matthew?"

Mary's brow furrowed for a moment. "Oh gracious, Sybil, I…I'm honestly not sure I could tell you an exact _moment_, as you say. We've known each other since we were children!" Her eyes looked off into the distance, and Sybil could tell her sister was thinking about their childhood. "Perhaps…perhaps it began the moment he tried to cheer me up after that ghastly birthday party."

Sybil smiled at this, remembering the day, though she was very young at the time and only just begun to walk. "Granny was so certain you were going to be the family witch," she murmured, glancing down at the spell book in her hands. "You certainly would have made a much better one than me."

Mary frowned at this. "Oh Sybil, you mustn't say such things! I know you've had some struggles, but you're much better than give yourself credit for. Besides, you know my feelings when it comes to spending the long hours that you make in studying. Not to mention I abhor brooms, and can't even begin to imagine flying on one."

Sybil did smile and soon found herself laughing at this. Still, she doubted that Mary would make half the mistakes she had made, and she certainly doubted that Mary would get something like a silly love spell (curse) wrong.

"Why do you ask?" Mary asked, once again drawing Sybil out of her thoughts. Sybil looked confused, so Mary clarified. "When you asked me when it was that I knew I loved Matthew…why do you ask?" She looked at her sister intently for a long moment. "Sybil? Are you…?"

"NO!" Sybil shook her head, perhaps a little passionately, because Mary hardly looked convinced. "I mean…no, no, not for myself," she was quick to explain, though she could feel heat rising in her cheeks. "I…I meant for Edith; I'm just thinking about Edith, and…and hoping she will give her heart to someone like Sir Anthony rather than Patrick, that's all."

Mary shrugged her shoulders at this. "Well, we shall see. At least Sir Anthony has the advantage; he's here, whereas Patrick remains in Montreal. Also, Sir Anthony has been far more attentive to Edith than Patrick ever was, so I'll give him that."

Yes, that was true. And she did recall how happy Edith looked, both earlier today and at dinner. But something Mary had said did strike her, and the words pounded over and over in her mind in the rhythm with her heartbeat.

_"I would resent myself more, and regret my life, if I chose to marry Patrick simply so I could call myself 'Countess of Grantham' someday, rather than marry the man who I both love and respect, and who I believe loves and respects me."_

_A man who I both love and respect and who I believe loves and respects me._

Even though he was under a curse, it could be said that Tom Branson had showed her those things, love and respect. He had listened to her, _really, truly_ listened to her—he had encouraged her to follow her heart, that if nursing was something she truly wanted to do, then to do it! He had shared with her his possible hopes and dreams for the future, as well as so much more about himself. In just a few short days of getting to know him, Sybil felt so close, as if she had found a missing puzzle piece…and they both fit together perfectly…

_But it's not real! It's all a lie, a curse! That's the spell talking, nothing more!_

…But was it the spell also causing her heart to ache for him?

She could say what she wanted to about Tom's declaration of feelings for her as nothing but the result of misused magic. But as for her feelings? She had only herself to blame for that. And no counter spell could remove them…

* * *

Sybil was terrified Tom would hand in his notice and leave before she had a chance to give him the potion that would counter the spell. Could she blame him for wanting to leave, so he would never have to drive Sir Anthony to Downton, or pass by it on his half-days off again? She hadn't said anything to encourage him or give him hope that she would return his feelings. But…but maybe because she hadn't directly said "no" he wouldn't leave, either? But she couldn't risk the long wait, she needed to end this suffering (at least for himself) and get him the potion as soon as possible.

Mary and Matthew announced to everyone the next day that they were engaged, to which her father heartily shook Matthew's hand, while her mother cried and hugged her oldest daughter. Sybil saw the opportunity and decided to take it. "We should have a party this evening! Invite Sir Anthony back and celebrate!"

"Sir Anthony?" her father asked, looking a little confused.

"Yes!" Sybil insisted, trying to keep her blushing at bay. "He is our closest neighbor after all, and I think he would want to wish Mary and Matthew joy, don't you, Edith?"

Edith blushed and gave a rather bashful smile as she looked down at her feet. Mary rolled her eyes at her baby sister, but more as a teasing gesture than anything else. Her grandmother, however, was giving Sybil a rather disapproving look, most likely because she was only person in the room who actually knew the truth behind Sybil's interest in having Sir Anthony Strallan join them for dinner. But no matter how disapproving Violet Crawley looked, the decision was made and Sir Anthony was invited for a special dinner, one that would take place the following night.

This meant Sybil had to hope and pray that the sun would come out either that afternoon or the following day, as she needed sunlight for her counter potion.

_And then you need to approach Tom and convince him to take it._ Which meant…she would have to speak face to face with him again. Oh Lord, give her strength.

She spent the entire day locked inside her old classroom, blending herbs and murmuring magical words, concentrating deeply on her task, trying not to let the confusing emotions contradict her actions. She had to do this, she needed to do this, it wasn't right to let him suffer under the spell—_curse's_ effects. Besides, it wasn't really love that he felt; none of it was. She had to keep reminding herself that, over and over: it's not love, it's not love, he's not really in love with you, he thinks he is and he says he is, but not because he truly cares, only because the curse has made him think and say these things.

Yet how badly did she wish it weren't true? And perhaps that thought frightened her most of all, that there was a part of her, a part of her that seemed to be growing stronger, little by little, wishing that there was no curse, that he was being genuine, that he did have feelings for her…and that was tempted to not put a stop to it.

Sometime just before tea, the sun did break through the clouds overhead, and just as she had done with the love potion for Sir Anthony, Sybil set the counter potion in a glass jar on her windowsill to absorb as much sunlight as possible, while murmuring the final magic words, that the one who drank it would be free from the curse that burdened them, and they would return to how they once were.

She had barely managed to finish chanting the words, before the tears began to fall.

The day of dinner came with storm clouds brewing. Yes, she had been very fortunate that the sun had come out the previous day. Or unfortunate, depending on the mood that was passing through her.

Waiting for dinner was excruciating; Sybil tried to concentrate on spells for her sisters, but it was impossible. All she could think about was Tom Branson, and getting him the potion. But how? Put it in tea again? This time, the she made sure that the potion appeared in liquid form, so as not to be confused with either sugar or salt. It looked like milk, so it would make sense that she add it to his tea. But would he accept her offering? Or would he want nothing to do with her? Oh gracious, she was so worried, her palms were sweating and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. How was she going to do this? How could she even sit through dinner and wait until they had moved into the next room?

"Don't worry," Violet had reassured her later, just before tea. "I shall make your excuses for you; I'll say something about how you are concentrating so hard on preparing for the ball next week, that you must go to bed very early each night from now until All Hallows Eve. Sir Anthony will be the only one present who won't understand to what I'm referring to, but he's the sort who won't ask questions out of a fear of appearing rude to his hosts, so there you are; a perfect excuse for you to go and give that chauffeur the potion and be done with this silly nonsense."

_Silly nonsense._ Sybil sighed and turned her head to gaze out the window at the dark and gray clouds that seemed to cover Yorkshire and pour forth cold rain…like the tears that always seemed to be dripping down her cheeks. Was her mood affecting the weather? Or was it the other way around? Either way, she and the weather seemed to be entwined.

And perhaps because of it, Sir Anthony arrived a bit earlier than expected. The dressing gong had only been rung thirty minutes ago, and he was on the doorstep, and umbrella in hand to ward off the rain. Yet Matthew and Isobel were already dressed and waiting, and so they entertained the baronet, until the rest could come downstairs and join them.

Sybil's heart leapt into her throat when she heard Sir Anthony enter the house from the balcony that overlooked the great hall. Branson is here too, she thought to herself. And most likely, he was in the garage, although there was the possibility that he would be in the Servant's Hall, but she would try the garage first, despite the rain that fell.

She waited until Mary and Edith and her parents had gone down, before she gathered her new potion, and quietly snuck downstairs, not wanting to draw any attention to herself from anyone, even Carson and Mrs. Hughes.

Throwing a coat over her body and grabbing an umbrella, she darted outside, gasping as she tried her best to shield herself from the rain (though with the way the wind was blowing, it seemed that the rain was determined to get her, whether she had an umbrella or not). It was also freezing, and rather blinding too, so much so that when she reached the garage, she could only imagine what a mess she looked.

"Milady?"

Sybil gasped and whirled around to find Tom standing there, looking back at her with some surprise…but also some trepidation as well. Oh gracious, how it hurt to see him like that.

There was a question in his eyes…clearly he was wondering what she was doing there. And for a very brief moment, she swore she saw something alight in their blue depths, something that resembled…_hope_. Only to be quickly squashed.

He cleared his throat and straightened himself a little more. "You look very fine," he murmured, gazing at her for a moment, before reluctantly lowering his eyes. The compliment had been sincere, and Sybil blushed, because despite her rain-soaked appearance, she knew that he meant it—

_No, no, he DOESN'T mean it, that's the stupid curse talking! _ She shook her head, telling herself over and over again to be strong.

"You're not at dinner?" he asked, looking a little confused as he stood near Sir Anthony's car. She looked at him and took notice of his somewhat disheveled appearance. While he still had his livery jacket on, it hung open, revealing glimpses of his neck and broad chest. Sybil swallowed as she took in the sight of him; gracious, he truly was handsome. And memories of muscled back, his forearms, the way he had caught her and held her and steadied her when she had fallen out of that tree…

She had always thought him handsome, even when she first met him that cold, windy night; but now she couldn't help but look at him and feel something more than admiration.

_Desire_. Yes, she found herself desiring Tom Branson in a way that…that…

_That a woman in love would desire her lover…_

"Milady?"

Sybil gasped and shook her head. Her face felt like it was on fire. She forced her eyes to meet his, and felt her heart melt once more. "I…I just…" she was making a fool of herself and making things even worse. "It's terribly cold and I thought perhaps you would like some—"

Tea. She was _supposed_ to bring him a cup of tea! But here she was, standing and looking like a drowned rat, her counter potion in the pocket of her skirt, but no tea to pour the milky-looking mixture into. And she couldn't just hand him the jar and ask him to drink that. Oh heavens, she really was the worst witch!

"Sybil…"

She bit her lip and looked up at him, blushing and trembling as he quietly and slowly began to approach her. Oh Lord, the way he spoke her name, it was so beautiful…

"I know that I shocked you the other day when I…when I made known to you what I was feeling—"

"Please, you don't have to—"

"Yes I do," he sighed. "I do, because…because I need you to know that I'm not lying, that I'm being very sincere, that I do mean it when I tell you that I lov—"

"Oh Tom, please don't," she moaned, biting her lip and fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.

He frowned, and she could see that he was both hurt and growing frustrated. "Why?" he asked, taking another step towards her. "Why can't I say it?"

_Because it isn't true! You say you're not lying, but you are! And it's all my fault! That bloody love curse…_

"Is it so impossible to imagine that…that a man like me could love someone like you?"

"Tom…"

"Sybil, I do; I love you—"

"No, Tom, you're just saying that—"

"I'm not! I mean it with my whole heart!"

"No, you don't."

"I DO!" he was right in front of her, and his hands were grasping hers, holding them tenderly, but tightly as well. Sybil's gasp was lost somewhere in her throat, because she was staring up at him, her eyes moving back and forth from his eyes…to his lips. "I do…" he murmured again, his own eyes lingering on her lips too. "And…and I know you feel the same about me."

Her eyes went wide and she stared at him. "W-w-what?"

"You're too scared to admit it," he told her, his thumb running across her knuckles. "But you're in love with me."

"I…" she felt lightheaded, her entire world was spinning. How did he know? "Don't…don't be ridiculous," she mumbled, looking anywhere but in his eyes.

"If you didn't care, you would have—"

"What?" her head snapped up, and suddenly she was feeling angry. He presumed to know her heart! And…well, so what if his words were true? How dare he—how dare THAT CURSE—claim to know her feelings. "Oh I see," she muttered, pulling her hands free. "Because I didn't complain to Sir Anthony or my family about what happened in York, it must mean I'm in love with you?"

The look in his eyes seemed to say, _"Well doesn't it?"_ and oh, how she wanted to shove him then; Tom Branson was indeed very handsome, but gracious, curse or not, the man could be frightfully full of himself.

"Look…" he sighed, pausing to run a hand through his hair. "It comes down to whether or not you love me; that's all, that's it, the rest is detail."

_The rest is detail._ But that was the problem; the details were that none of this was real! And suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, because she was so upset and angry with herself and with him and with that bloody curse, and she found herself shaking her head, fighting the hot tears that were clouding her vision, and muttering, "Don't badger me!" before turning on her heel to leave him there in the garage to stew, when she was stopped short by his hand, reaching out and grasping her hip, his fingers large and wide, spreading and touching her waist, too.

Sybil froze. Froze and looked at him (or rather, his lips again) as she was robbed of her breath when she realized just how intimately he had touched her…and how close they were once more standing again.

His fingers lingered for a long moment against her waist, before finally sliding away, though the second they were gone, she missed them. Oh Lord, she craved his touch, she was longing for it, again! And she couldn't take her eyes away from his lips…they looked so sweet, so tempting…

She had never been kissed before. She had spent so much of her life studying and preparing and trying to perfect her magical skills (or lack thereof) that she had rarely attended balls or parties, and therefore had little interaction with eligible gentlemen. Not that she had ever really given much thought to courtship…until now.

Her heart was racing as she gazed at his mouth, and she felt her body leaning in…and he was leaning closer to. _Just a little more…just a little more…_

NO! No, she couldn't, they couldn't do this! This wasn't real! "I can't!" she practically wailed, stumbling back, the tears betraying her and falling down her face.

Tom looked horrified, and suddenly ashamed. "Sybil, I'm sorry, please don't go—"

"Stop it!" she gasped, not able to keep her emotions in any longer. "Just…stop talking, and…and…" she dug into her pocket and produced the jar that contained the potion. "Please, just…just drink this."

Tom looked confused. "I…I don't understand—"

"THIS ISN'T REAL!" Sybil wailed, throwing her hands up into the air, all of her frustrations pouring forth. She shouldn't say this to him, she wasn't supposed to reveal what she was without the coven's permission, but she didn't care. "You're bewitched Tom!"

His brow furrowed. "Bewitched?"

"YES!" she sobbed, lifting her hands to her face and trying to furiously wipe them clean, though it was all in vain, for the second she had dried her skin, more tears wetted her cheeks. "I…I'm a witch Tom! And you're under a spell—a curse, actually!"

He stared at her, looking at her as if she were mad. Oh it was just as well; if he thought her mad, perhaps that would help in convincing him to drink her potion and relieve him of these feelings?

"That night…that night when we first met, when I brought you your tea," she went on to explain. "I had made a love potion, for…for Sir Anthony Strallan; I wanted him to fall in love with Edith, because that's Edith's greatest wish, to be loved, and…and as a witch, that is my charge, to grant the wishes of my sisters—oh but never mind that," she groaned, shaking her head. "The point is…the potion accidently got into your tea, you drank it, and now you think you're in love with me!"

"But I am in love with you—"

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" Sybil shouted, shaking her head violently and stomping her foot. "This is all because of the spell! Think about it! You suddenly started having feelings for me, _a complete stranger, _just a day after meeting me?It's NOT possible!"

His jaw remained rigid, and though he didn't make a move towards her, the words he spoke felt as if they were reaching out for her. "But what if it is? What if the second after I started speaking with you, my heart became yours?"

Sybil groaned with frustration. "But it didn't! It was the potion, don't you see? THE POTION! It's all because of magic! You're under a curse, Tom, and…and this…" she thrusted the jar that contained the counter potion into his hands. "This is the cure."

Tom stared down at the tiny jar and its milky liquid. He didn't say anything, merely lifted his eyes and looked back at her, and once again, she saw pain in their depths, but Sybil shook her head, turned her eyes away from him and continued speaking, just needing to get this all out. "Drink that," she told him, looking at the ground, looking anywhere but at his face. "Drink it and you'll be free."

A pause of silence filled the garage, before Tom's voice spoke, so low and soft, but the words tore her heart in two. "But what if I don't want to be free?"

Oh God! It was the most beautiful and most heartbreaking thing she could imagine him saying to her. She began to cry again and found herself shaking her head once more.

"But it's not true, it's not real!" she sobbed, backing away from him, not caring that she had left her umbrella on the ground and she would get herself soaked the second she left the garage. "And…and I don't want an illusion to love me."

"Sybil—"

She couldn't hear another word, she just turned on her heel and ran, ran as fast as she could through the pouring rain, not being able to tell what were tears running down her face, or what was rain. She felt numb to the core, and with every step her heart was breaking. It was strange, she would later realize, as she laid in bed, her eyes red and swollen, how Tom didn't seem to flinch or blink when she had told him she was a witch and he was under a spell. He seemed far more concerned in trying to convince her that he truly did love her. As for Tom Branson, he remained in the garage, watching her run from him with a heavy heart, tempted to chase after her and catch her in his arms and just…kiss her until she believed him. But he didn't. Instead he turned his gaze to the jar she had left, stared at it, picked it up, opened it…and then placed it on a nearby worktable, turning his back on it as he tried to contemplate everything she had told him…

He didn't see the wet ginger cat that leapt up onto the table, shaking the water from its fur, and sticking its nose into the jar…

* * *

"I hope you're not coming down with a cold, Sybil," Violet murmured the next day. She had arrived early again, while the family was still having breakfast, to once again oversee the plans for the upcoming ball. Sybil had been sniffling all morning, but it had nothing to do with a cold.

"I'm fine, Granny," she told the older witch as she nibbled on a piece of toast.

"I'm glad to hear it," Violet murmured, glancing around the table and noticing how no one seemed to be paying attention to them. "And…that _other_ problem? I trust you 'took care' of everything?

Sybil flinched at her grandmother's words, but she mutely nodded her head.

Carson entered the room then, carrying a tray that contained two cards. "A message for you, Lady Edith," he announced.

Edith thanked the butler and took the card, gasping and grinning as she recognized the handwriting. "It's from Sir Anthony!" she exclaimed, not wasting any time in opening it. Sybil tried to smile for her sister, wanting to be happy for her, but she was still nursing her own broken heart.

"Oh my!" she gasped, as she started to read it.

"What?" Mary asked, casually looking up from her breakfast.

"Oh, just…apparently, after taking him back to Locksley, last night, his chauffeur quit!"

Sybil's silverware clattered against her plate. "W-w-what?" she stammered, her face paling at this revelation. Everyone stared at her, looking surprised by the reaction, save her grandmother, whose eyes and frown she could feel boring into the back of her head, but she didn't care, she stared at Edith, needing to understand what had happened. "What do you mean he…he quit?"

Edith looked back at her letter. "Just that; they returned to the house, and his chauffeur asked to speak with him…and then handed in his notice! He left for Liverpool very early this morning to take a ferry back to Ireland."

Robert frowned. "Hmm, very strange; he had just hired that chauffeur. I wonder what possessed him to just leave like that?" he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his newspaper.

Perhaps because he had awoken from the curse and didn't want to be anywhere near her? Sybil swallowed, her stomach turning at this revelation. She tried to tell herself that she should be relieved by this, because it surely meant he wasn't suffering any longer! But her suffering had only just begun…

She rose then from her chair. "I…I need to go find Alfred," she mumbled under her breath. "I haven't seen him since yesterday; he may have gotten locked out, poor thing."

"WAIT!" she was stopped from leaving the breakfast room by her grandmother, who was reading her own letter; apparently the second message Carson had brought had been for her. "Oh…oh Sybil, this is wonderful, WONDERFUL NEWS!"

"What? What's wonderful news?" Mary asked, looking up at their grandmother with interest.

Violet thrusted the letter into Sybil's hands, before turning and sharing the news with the others. "I have just found Sybil's future husband!"

"WHAT!?" Sybil gasped, dropping the letter and staring at her grandmother in absolute shock. Everyone else looked just as surprised, but perhaps not as horrified as Sybil was looking.

"What do you mean, Mama, that you've found Sybil's future husband?" Robert asked, looking even more confused by this news than by Sir Anthony's announcement that his chauffeur had left.

"Larry Grey!" Violet announced, grinning. "The Grand Warlock is stepping down, and Larry Grey has been chosen to be his successor!"

"Oh, it's a 'witch thing'," Robert muttered, resuming reading his newspaper.

"You remember Larry, don't you Sybil? He's the son of Mary's godfather—of course that was back when we were so certain that Mary was going to be the next Crawley witch, but that doesn't matter," she waved her hand, grinning at her pale-faced granddaughter. "Oh just imagine…YOU! The wife of the Grand Warlock! Oh Sybil, the honor you would bring to this family! This is wonderful news!"

Sybil thought she would vomit. She shook her head, feeling the bile rising in her throat, and she turned without another look or word, and flew out of the room, her head pounding as the two pieces of news rocked back and forth inside her head. Larry Grey, a boy from her childhood who she couldn't stand, was to become the next Grand Warlock and if her grandmother had her way, her future husband…and Tom Branson was gone.

Tom Branson…who she loved with all her heart, spell or no, was gone. And she would never see him again. Oh it was too much to bear.

She retreated to her room, her vision blurred by her tears, and she didn't stop until the door was shut and locked behind her. She wanted to throw herself down on the bed and sob and melt away until there was nothing left of her, not even her broken heart…but was stopped short by a strange noise, coming from the ground on the far side of her bed.

"Alfred?" she sniffled, trying to wipe her eyes. "Alfred, where have you been, you silly cat?" she moved towards the bed, ready to scoop up the poor ginger cat, but stopped short when a hand—_a human hand_—appeared on top of her bed, followed by a human arm, that pushed up a very human—and _very naked_—body to his full (and very tall) height.

"Blimy!" the tall, ginger-haired, and naked man groaned, looking down at his arms and chest, before smiling widely and lifting his eyes to Sybil's. "I'M HUMAN AGAIN!"

Sybil screamed.

* * *

_AHHHH! So much is happening! Tom has left? Larry Grey is to become the new Grand Warlock? ALFRED IS HUMAN AGAIN!? And what about the wishes Sybil is supposed to grant for her sisters? All will be revealed in the conclusion...at the All Hallows Eve Masquerade Ball!_


	5. Chapter 5

_HERE IT IS! The final chapter to this Halloween fantasy! And it's a long one :oP Thank you to everyone who read and followed and favorited! I appreciate all your reviews and comments! YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELVES TO THANK, because I seriously wasn't thinking about doing this until people encouraged me on tumblr, so thank you for that, this has been fun! I won't delay you further, but I'm curious to see if the ending surprises you ;o) so please, please, PLEASE leave a review and let me know what you think! THANK YOU! And Happy Halloween!_

* * *

_Chapter Five_

Violet stared at her youngest granddaughter, her mouth open, the desire to…to groan and shout bubbling up, but then she would close her mouth, and furiously renew her pacing back and forth. "I…I just…I can't…" Violet tried to form coherent sentences, but she was struggling because it just seemed so unbelievable that such…such bad luck…could fall on what was once known as one of the most prominent magical families in all of Britain, if not the world! She looked over her granddaughter's shoulder at the object that had been brought to her attention, and rolled her eyes and shook her head, groaning as she turned her attentions back to Sybil, before muttering finally, "Sybil, I…without a doubt, you truly are—"

"—the worst witch the Crawley family has ever seen; yes, I know this Granny, you don't have to repeat it," Sybil mumbled, her eyes downcast and her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to keep out a chill, despite the warm room they were standing in.

Violet sighed and shook her head, a moment of guilt washing over her as she recalled saying those words before to her granddaughter, and remembering the heartache they had caused. "No, you're not the worst witch, my dear, just…an unlucky one." As if that made things better. "Very unlucky," she muttered, looking at the figure that stood in the corner, her frown deepening as she watched him.

Sybil turned and looked over her shoulder and groaned at the sight she saw. "Alfred! I told you, stop licking your hands!"

The tall ginger-haired man that had once been her ginger-colored cat immediately stopped his cat-like grooming and put his hand behind his back. "Sorry—old habit," he explained with a bit of a sheepish grin, though it quickly faded at the cold glare the Dowager Countess was sending his way.

Violet had appeared at the sound of Sybil's scream; she was not yet finished in talking to her granddaughter about the possibility of ensnaring Larry Grey, but that was brushed aside when Sybil's scream was met with a man's voice asking her to stop, and she magically teleported herself inside, ready to do battle with whatever ruffian was attacking her youngest granddaughter, only to gape at the sight of the tall—and rather naked—ginger fellow, who was holding one of Sybil's pillows to his body to cover himself, and who kept repeating over and over, _"I'm Alfred! I'm Alfred!"_

Explanations from both Alfred and Sybil soon followed, and Violet had the former cat, now naked man, stand behind Sybil's dressing screen, while her granddaughter went to fetch some clothes for their new…footman.

"Just what we need," Violet groaned, frowning at the footman's livery they had been able to find him. The uniform fit him, but just barely; he really was quite tall. "A footman who thinks he's a cat—who did this to you again?"

Alfred blushed. "A witch from America," he mumbled, looking a little embarrassed.

Violet pursed her lips at this. "And what did you do?"

"Granny! What makes you think—?"

"She caught me and her lady's maid in a rather…heated embrace," he confessed.

Sybil's eyes widened at this revelation. "Alfred!" Not that she had a right to act shocked; after all, she would be lying if she didn't admit that ever since he had caught her, she had been daydreaming about Tom Branson's own powerful embrace.

Violet lifted her eyebrows at this, a haughty look on her face that seemed to say, "well you got what you deserved", but instead of continuing to lecture the man who had once been Sybil's cat, she shook her head and looked back and forth between the both of them. "So you drank this potion," she began, looking directly at Alfred, who guiltily nodded his head.

"It had been raining and I was stuck in the garage and hungry, and…well, it looked like milk! So when he wasn't looking, I jumped to where the bottle was and started to drink—"

Violet waved her hand dismissively. "Did _he_ drink any of it?"

Sybil held her breath as she waited for Alfred's answer.

"I…I don't know, exactly, milady," he confessed, looking pained that he couldn't give a more positive answer. "I mean, I…I started to feel something not long after I drank the potion…a sick feeling. I took my chances with the rain, ran back to the house, made it back to Sybil's room and—"

"And the rest is detail," Violet muttered.

Sybil stiffened at her grandmother's words, recalling how Tom had said them to her just the other day.

_"It comes down to whether or not you love me; that's all, that's it, the rest is detail…"_

He had been right.

Because she did; she did love him. And no magic spell had been cast upon her to make her feel that way. But did she _really_ love Tom Branson? Or did she love what she thought was Tom Branson? Because he was under the curse, therefore all the sweet words he had said to her were a result of that curse—

"I don't think he did," Alfred spoke up again. "He thought about it, I could tell…he held the glass and looked like he was going to drink it, but then he put it down and turned away, and that's when I leapt up to take it."

Tom _hadn't_ drunk the potion? Sybil's heart leapt with hope at this possibility, but she quickly shook her head, feeling stupid for thinking such things, because it would mean that he was _still_ inflicted with the curse.

_But if Tom hadn't drunk it, why…why did he hand in his notice? Why did he go back to Ireland?_

She had assumed he had done these things as a result of realizing his feelings for the last few weeks were nothing but magical fabrications, and therefore, disgusted with her and his false feelings, he had quit and returned to his homeland to be as far away from her as possible.

…And maybe that was still true? Even if he hadn't drunk her potion, maybe after she had told him that he was bewitched and it was all a lie…_that_ had pushed him away?

Oh did it matter? Her heart was still breaking, and Sybil doubted any magic, no matter how powerful, would be able to heal it.

"Sybil," her grandmother spoke her name harshly and she lifted her eyes to that of the older woman's. "I forbid you to shed a tear over this chauffeur," she warned, before trying to look somewhat sympathetic. "My dear, you're young and confused, that's all. You've never had a man declare his heart to you, so naturally you find yourself feeling a bit…_taken_ by it."

_Taken by it?_ Sybil felt her jaw stiffen the more her grandmother talked. It was true, no man had ever declared his heart to her, but by that same token, no man had ever listened to her—_really_ listened to her—or encouraged her, or shared pieces of himself with her in such a way, that she felt at ease and that she could share pieces of herself with him…

She may not be an expert when it came to love, but she knew her own heart well enough to know that it wasn't simply "blind flattery" that had caused her to feel this way for Tom Branson.

_But isn't it? Because in some ways, it is "blind flattery", because he was blind because of that potion!_ Oh damn that curse!

"…You'll get over this," Violet reassured, and Sybil felt herself stiffen again, especially as Tom's words from the previous day came flooding back.

_"But what if I don't want to be free?"_

"...You'll meet some very eligible young warlocks at the ball, _including_ Larry Grey," her grandmother grinned, giving Sybil a conspiratorial wink that caused her stomach to churn.

It had been many years since she had seen Larry, yet she remembered how much of a bully he could be, using his magical gifts as a means to play pranks on others and think himself superior to anyone who wasn't like them. She also remembered him being very vain and self-centered; a complete snob, really. He had been elected to the high coven council for the British Isles a few years ago, and that was the last Sybil had heard of him, and as far as she was concerned, that was just fine. But never, not once, did she think that he of all people would be chosen to take over as the next Grand Warlock! This did not bode well for the future…_anyone's_ future.

"As for you," Violet turned her eyes to Alfred once more, who was fighting the urge to groom what were once his paws again. "I'll tell Carson that for the time being, you've been hired to help with preparations for All Hallows Eve; I don't know what we'll do with you after that, but I'm sure we'll think of something."

"Please don't turn me back?" Alfred begged. "I mean, being a cat wasn't so bad, but…"

Violet lifted a finger in warning. "Just don't engage in the activities that led to your previous fate, and we should be fine." She turned back to her granddaughter and frowned. "Now Sybil, don't pout, it's not becoming of a witch of your station."

Sybil bit back the retort she wanted to hurl at her grandmother. Oh more than ever, more than ever before, did she wish she could simply "quit" this fate she was living, the way Tom had quit his job for Sir Anthony. She realized now, after her conversation with Tom and seeing the training college in York, that Sybil wanted to devote her time and talents (or what lack of talent) to the healing arts, just like her cousin Isobel.

And she doubted that would be possible if her grandmother had her way and she became the wife of the next Grand Warlock.

"Granny, I have a great deal of work to do," Sybil lied, wanting more than anything to be alone. "All Hallows Eve is a week away, and I still need to work on my spells for Mary and Edith."

Violet frowned but chose not to say anything. She nodded her head and looked directly at Alfred. "Come along; there is work to be done to get this house ready for next week's ball."

Alfred swallowed and nodded his head, though he was looking at Sybil with a bit of unease. Even in his human form, it was clear he didn't like to be parted from her.

Sybil forced a smile, hoping it looked reassuring enough for her once feline companion. "Go on, it's alright."

Alfred sighed and nodded his head, before tugging on his livery coat and moving towards Violet, who was now standing in the open doorway of the room, turning her back to lead the way out. But before he left, he did turn to look at Sybil, before whispering, "I don't think he's cursed!"

Sybil's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Trust me!" Alfred went on. "As someone who knows a thing or two about 'being under a curse', I honestly don't think he is!"

* * *

The week went on, at an agonizing pace, which was both a blessing and a curse in its own way. A blessing in the sense that it was delaying the ball and her inevitable meeting with Larry Grey, but a curse in the sense that she was left to stew with her thoughts and heartache for the missing Tom Branson, who no matter how many times she asked poor Sir Anthony, the man had no idea to the reasons for why his new chauffeur had left, or how to get in touch with him.

Also, Alfred's words continued to swirl around in her head. What did he mean that he knew Tom wasn't cursed? Of course he was! No one thought themselves in love after just a single meeting!

…Did they?

Oh what did Alfred know? He was a cat then! He still was a cat in many ways; it was not uncommon for Sybil or Violet to find him trying to groom his hands once again. Thankfully no one else saw this, though his sudden appearance did create a bit of a stir with the other servants, yet everyone seemed to accept her grandmother's story, that Alfred had been hired to help with preparations for the upcoming ball, which soon began to consume every waking minute for the staff of Downton Abbey.

Sybil would roam the corridors and find more decorations than the previous day, from garlands made of colorful, shimmering oak leafs, to pumpkin sculptures adorning every flat surface. The ballroom floor had been polished twice, the food and wine had been ordered, a menu was set, and the finishing touches were being taken to everyone's gown and costume.

Even though the rest of the Crawleys weren't magical like she and her grandmother, because Downton was hosting the ball, they were permitted to attend. Mary was looking forward to the ball, though Mary always loved parties and playing hostess—a chance for her to imagine herself as countess, so Sybil thought. Edith was looking forward to it as well, though she seemed to be anxious since she didn't necessarily have a partner. Sir Anthony had been to Downton twice since Tom's departure, both during the day—once simply to have tea, the second time to invite Edith to join him for a concert in York that would take place the day after the ball. Edith blushed and smiled and murmured how she would like that very much, and Sybil remembered smiling from the corner where she sat, feeling as if it were the closest to an actual sign of courtship that she had ever seen between the two. Yes, perhaps a love spell was unnecessary after all? However, the next day the post arrived with a letter from their cousin Patrick, announcing that he was returning to England and had big plans for Downton. He also made mention that he had a very important question to ask one of his cousins, but didn't elaborate as to what it was or to whom. Sybil exchanged a wary glance with Mary when this was made, and they both looked at Edith, who was looking down at her lap, her expression unreadable (though in fairness, she did not look like someone who was happy and eager to greet a man whom once upon a time, she thought the world of). Oh, it would be just like Patrick to return to Downton, make a big fuss about the possibility of proposing marriage, only to _not_ propose marriage—just another cruel trick against her sister, because Patrick knew Edith loved him (or did, once).

With only two days to spare until All Hallows Eve, Sybil retreated to her room, grabbed the spell book, and did not leave until she found exactly what she was looking for—a spell to "set everything in order". Let this do what her previous spells couldn't! She gathered two items from her sisters, sprinkled ground witch hazel over them, threw the nearly sprinkled items into a cauldron, stirred, and murmured the words found in the spell book, before pouring the strange concoction into a cup and drinking it.

Oh heavens, it tasted vile. And it made her drowsy. She fell asleep and did not wake until much later, by her mother pressing a cool hand against her brow, concerned etched across her face. Cora asked Sybil if Dr. Clarkson was needed, but Sybil was only interested to know if somehow her spell had worked—if Mary was countess without having to marry Cousin Patrick, and if Edith was free of his torment and happily engaged to Sir Anthony.

…And if Tom Branson was back, free from her curse, but…but still somehow willing to…to…

"My, the maids have done wonders in here," Cora murmured, interrupting Sybil's thoughts.

Sybil looked at her mother in confusion. "W-w-what?"

Cora made a gesture to the neat and orderly way her study area and book shelves, which normally were quite messy based on the hours she spent hovering over the family spell book and researching what she could various herbs and incantations, were.

"I noticed the same thing with your sisters' rooms," her mother went on to comment. "Not that Mary and Edith are usually messy, but…something certainly seemed different! Oh Sybil, you should see the ballroom—it practically sparkles!"

_A spell to set everything in order._ A cleaning spell! That was all she had done. Sybil groaned and flopped back against her pillows. Yes, she truly was the worst witch in all existence.

And more than that, she was a failure; she had failed both her sisters in granting their ultimate wishes before All Hallows Eve of her 21st year.

…And she had failed Tom too; for all she knew, he was still suffering from the curse she had placed upon him. They both were. Oh how she hated herself. Oh how she hated being a witch!

If she could have her way, she would feign illness so she wouldn't have to attend this silly ball. But her grandmother would find her out, and probably perform some sort of spell that would _make_ her attend. Well fine, let this ball mark the end of her magical life. When a witch turns twenty-one, she becomes her own person, her magical education believed to be completed. And as far as Sybil was concerned, that meant her life as a witch was over as well.

No more magic. No more coven meetings. No more of this talk about becoming Larry Grey's future bride. Just no more.

And she was well aware that she would be upsetting her grandmother, as well as the family's magical legacy. History would show her as the greatest disappointment to the Crawley name, and young witches everywhere would be warned by their mentors, "don't become like Sybil Crawley!" She truly would be remembered as "the worst witch", though this would have become even more apparent if she remained and continued to practice magic. Her grandmother wouldn't understand now, but ultimately Sybil she would only become a bigger disappointment in the future if she didn't stop now.

Besides…her heart had never truly been in it, or at least not that aspect of it.

Perhaps that was one way to honor her lost love? By having the courage to bravely go forth and pursue the life she wanted? To give all this up and become a nurse, just like her cousin Isobel, and use her pitiful gifts for a good cause like that?

…But she would still have to get through this ball, before she let go of her old life and embrace her new one.

All Hallows Eve arrived on a cold, foggy morning; fog so thick one could chew it, so Mrs. Patmore muttered as she looked out her kitchen windows. Violet was doing last minute inspections, making sure all the pumpkin sculptures and harvest center pieces looked perfect. Mary and Matthew looked very fine in their evening wear, her sister wearing a shimmering black frock that was beautifully accompanied by a jeweled mask that resembled a cat. Alfred gave a sigh of longing when he saw Mary pass holding her mask; he then explained to Sybil that the lady's maid to whom he had "passionately embraced" once upon a time, had also been transformed into a cat—a black cat—but had been taken away to America by the witch who had transformed him. He always felt a squeeze in his chest whenever a black cat crossed his path.

Edith looked lovely too in her velvet olive green frock. When she showed Sybil her mask, Sybil gasped, realizing that her sister was going as a toad of all things. "Well, it's your ball," Edith giggled, blushing and looking down at the mask in her hands. "Or at least I'll be thinking of it as _your_ ball," she clarified, because the All Hallows Eve masquerade was meant to honor all British witches who turned twenty-one. "And I know how much you love the toads!"

Sybil felt tears prick the back of her eyes, and she quickly embraced her sister, thanking her for the thoughtful costume, and wishing with all her heart that she could have made Edith's deepest longing come true.

"It will be good to see Patrick again, don't you think?" Edith asked while they hugged.

Sybil felt her heart plummet. Oh how she wished Sir Anthony could have come; oh how she wished she wasn't rubbish when it came to being a witch!

"Sybil!" the harsh knock brought Sybil out of her thoughts and both she and Edith looked at the door to see their grandmother standing there, looking beyond stressed. "The guests are starting to arrive! Come down at once and greet them!"

Sybil groaned, and glanced at herself in the mirror, straightening the hat her grandmother had gotten her for the celebration. "Duty calls," she muttered to her sister, who only laughed and looped her arm through hers, before leading the way downstairs.

Some of the witches and warlocks who passed through Downton's doors Sybil had seen before, at the few coven meetings she had attended with her grandmother. But most of them were unfamiliar faces, all of them gasping at the beauty of house, being quick to tell her grandmother that she had "outdone herself", before stiffly greeting the rest of her family who stood close by, not used to encountering so many "non-magical" folk at such a gathering.

The British aristocracy was full of snobs, but none snobbier than British aristocratic witches.

Violet gasped when she caught sight of a particular person entering the house, and grabbed Sybil's wrist, pulling her forward. "Mr. Grey!" Violet greeted with an elegant smile. "How wonderful of you to come and attend!"

Larry Grey smiled, bowing his head and taking Violet's hand in his. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Grantham," he assured, before his eyes swept past the dowager countess to the young woman standing beside her. "Lady Sybil? My, my, my…" he murmured, his eyes sweeping over her figure, causing Sybil to fidget uncomfortably. "The years have been good."

Sybil frowned, not taking his words as the possible attended compliment he may have meant. He bent over rather dramatically to kiss her hand, which she quickly snatched away the second his lips left it. "Thank you for coming," she muttered under her breath, doing a polite curtsey and hoping he would move on to allow other guests through the receiving line. However, just as she remembered, Larry Grey never gave a thought of consideration for others, and so he lingered, glancing at her family, giving them a stiff nod, but only because it was expected, not because he wanted to. Indeed, he was the snobbiest of all.

"Are you not wearing a mask?" she asked, trying to be polite.

Larry scoffed. "Heaven's no! And cover this?" he chuckled, making a motion towards his face, which earned a dreamy sigh from several other young witches. Sybil fought hard not to roll her eyes.

"I pray your dance card hasn't been filled?" he chuckled, giving her that handsome smile he no doubt thought would cause her to swoon. "I would very much like to request the first two dances."

Sybil glanced down the line at her father and Matthew, hoping to make up some excuse that her first two dances were spoken for, however her grandmother didn't give her a chance, because suddenly she was speaking up on Sybil's behalf.

"No, of course not! Sybil would be delighted, Mr. Grey, isn't that right Sybil?" Violet carried on, not bothering to wait for a reply. "She's spoken of nothing else since we learned that you would be attending," Violet continued, to which Sybil looked absolutely horrified, and Larry Grey positively elated. Yet if she was hoping he would move along, that seemed to do the trick, for he bowed, kissed her hand once more, before leaning in to whisper how he was looking forward to their dance, and finally moving away.

Sybil groaned, glaring at her grandmother, who was already busy greeting the next set of guests. However, she and everyone else was interrupted when a great cloud of purple smoke appeared before them, and out of the smoke came a coughing, elegantly dressed red-headed woman, clutching a broom in one hand, and a squirming black cat in the other.

"MOTHER!?" Cora gasped, the entire room staring at the woman as the last of the smoke dissipated. "What…how…why…?"

Martha Levinson waved the hand that was holding the broom about, and Carson quickly approached to take it from her. "Ah, thanks old boy," she winked at the blushing butler, before turning and grinning widely at her granddaughter. "Happy Halloween darling!"

Sybil stared in shock at her American grandmother, but before the woman could embrace her, Violet stepped forward, glaring at the party crasher. "This ball was by INVITATION ONLY, and exclusively for witches of the British Isles!"

Martha rolled her eyes and pushed her way past Violet, her smile returning as she leaned forward to kiss her shocked granddaughter's cheeks. "You think I was going to miss my Sybil's big day? When she becomes a witch to take on the world? Pfft," she tucked the black cat under her arm and waved her hand for a footman to bring her a drink. "I hope they're playing decent music at this thing; I do know of a spell that solve that problem if needs be."

Violet's face had gone from red to purple, and Sybil swore she could see smoke come out of her grandmother's ears. "I'll keep an eye on her," Cora reassured her mother-in-law, before quickly following Martha into the ballroom. Robert groaned, muttering under his breath that he badly needed a drink. Matthew looked confused and both Mary and Edith couldn't help but look amused by the whole situation. As for Sybil, she was feeling a headache come on.

It was going to be an interesting night, to say the least.

* * *

…And she wasn't wrong.

At eight o'clock, dinner was served, and the Grand Warlock stood to offer a toast, first thanking the Crawleys for hosting their annual gathering, before turning to congratulate all of the witches who were celebrating their coming out this year, and finally raising his glass to a beaming and rather smug-looking Larry Grey, who at the stroke of twelve, would be named the next Grand Warlock.

Sybil couldn't practically hear her grandmother ringing wedding bells.

For the most part, the meal was pleasant; Mrs. Patmore and her staff had outdone themselves, and all members of staff were exceedingly attentive…save perhaps Alfred, who Sybil noticed looking extremely nervous whenever he entered the room to refill an empty wine glass. Martha regaled guests with tales of the American covens, some finding her charming, while others stuck their noses up and continued to sip their wine in silence. And even though she wasn't a witch, Mary did her best to serve as a most magnanimous hostess, Matthew smiling with both love and pride as he watched his fiancée.

The meal soon came to an end, and the Grand Warlock stood and encouraged all guests to go through to the ballroom for dancing, which naturally had all of the young witches giggling and blushing and grinning with excitement…save one.

"I believe this is our dance, Lady Sybil," Larry Grey whispered in her ear, coming up behind hear and surprising so, that her hat nearly fell off when she gasped.

Oh how she wished she could think of a good excuse not to dance with him, but her mind had gone blank and her grandmother was standing nearby, giving her a hard, stern look that screamed, _"DANCE WITH HIM!"_ so with a reluctant sigh, Sybil took his offered hand and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.

The two of them, along with the other girls who were celebrating their introductions into magical society, as well as her grandmother and the Grand Warlock, would open the first set. The orchestra whom Violet had hired began to play, and Larry wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her just a bit closer than was perhaps necessary.

"This is nice, don't you think?" he asked her as they began to move to the music.

Sybil swallowed and nodded her head, deciding to keep her eyes focused on the others in the room, rather than look up at her partner.

"It could always be like this, you know."

Sybil nearly stumbled at his words. "W-w-what?"

Larry was wincing, because her heal had come down on his foot. "You come from a very esteemed line of witches, Lady Sybil," he continued. "One of the highest and most well regarded magical families in all of Europe, so I have heard."

Oh God, was he…was he…?

"I am to be the next Grand Warlock…and such an alliance between our two families would be most—OUCH!"

He hissed with pain as Sybil stepped on his toes…not quite as accidently as she had done earlier. "Hmm? Oh Larry, I'm so sorry, I'm such a klutz," she sighed, shaking her head and trying to look both apologetic and innocent, neither of which were true.

Larry forced a smile, though it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that it was a strained one. "Perhaps, Lady Sybil…when this dance is over, we can go somewhere a little more…_private_, to continue our conversation?"

Sybil's eyes widened and that sick feeling she had felt earlier in the week whenever her grandmother spoke about Larry Grey and her hopes for Sybil's future, quickly returned. "Oh, but…but I couldn't possibly neglect my guests—"

"Her Ladyship…" he hinted, glancing over at Violet. "…will handle things."

"But the dance—"

"But you promised _me_ the first two dances, so no one will miss you," he added with a devilish looking grin.

Sybil felt her jaw crack under the strain of his arrogance. "I really don't think—"

"Exactly," Larry interrupted for a third time. _"Don't think_, my dear."

She stared up at him, shocked and angry by his words and assumptions. Was this what he wanted? A puppet on a string to nod her head "yes" to his every whim? No, she would never be that, and she certainly would never be his wife, Grand Warlock or no! She wanted to stomp on his foot again; break his toes and make it impossible for him to dance again for the whole evening. However, she didn't have to, because another interruption came from behind.

"I'm cutting in."

Larry's devilish smile vanished and quickly became a frown at both the interruption, the finger that had tapped his shoulder. Sybil frowned too, but for different reasons. That voice…

"See here," Larry turned to face the man who had interrupted them. He was shorter than Larry, and unlike her partner, he was wearing a mask, that one that covered his face completely, save his chin and mouth, and his eyes of course. "Do you know _who I am?"_ Larry asked, his frown only growing as he glared back at his opponent.

Sybil tried to look over Larry's shoulder, but he was blocking her view. Who was that? His voice sounded strange but…also, strangely familiar…

"Just another man like me," the opponent answered.

Larry sputtered. "JUST ANOTHER…?" he clenched his teeth. "I'm the NEXT Grand Warlock!"

"Larry—" Sybil tried to be a voice of reason, especially since people were starting to turn their heads and look at them. But Larry shook her hand off his arm, and continued to glare at the man who stood opposite of him.

"You will leave this dance floor—this HOUSE—if you know what's good for you," he snarled at the intruder, fiery light starting to glow within his clenched fists.

"Larry, please!" Sybil hissed, tugging on his arm and pushing him away. "There's no need—" her voice halted as her eyes met those of the masked man…and she swore, her heart and breath stopped when she met his gaze.

Such deep, intense blue eyes…she _knew_ those eyes…

_No…no, it wasn't possible…was it?_

The masked man took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and Sybil felt a shiver run down her spine, all the way to her toes, making them curl in her slippers, as the masked man bowed, before murmuring, "milady…"

_Tom? _

"Sybil, I insist—"

"No, Larry," Sybil interrupted, her eyes never leaving those of her new partner. "I'm going to dance with him."

Larry started to sputter once more, only this time it was at her. "WHAT!? Sybil, you can't—"

She turned and glared at him. "Yes, I can; _I_ will decide what I want."

"But I don't think—"

"Exactly, Larry," Sybil stepped into her new partner's arms. _"Don't think."_ She couldn't help but grin as she threw the same words he had murmured to her back in his face. Her dance partner seemed to approve, and before Sybil had a chance to take a breath, she felt herself being whisked away.

She could feel several pairs of eyes on her, including those of her frowning grandmother, no doubt disapproving of her choice in "abandoning" Larry Grey on the ballroom floor, but if truth be told, Sybil couldn't care less. This was _her_ ball, after all; tonight she was her own witch, and just as she had boldly stated to Larry, she would make her own decisions from this point forward.

Sybil nibbled on her lip and looked up at her dance partner through hooded lashes. He was smiling at her, and despite the mask he wore, Sybil felt her heart leap and her breath quicken, especially as she felt his hand on her waist tighten even more.

Was it possible? Was it really Tom? His eyes…and his voice…and even his mouth, they all looked and sounded so familiar…

But how could that be? Sir Anthony had told her that Tom had returned to Ireland; why had he come back?

_The curse._

Her heart suddenly plummeted. The bloody curse. Was he still under it? Was that why he had come back? If he was still a victim to its power, then he was still under its illusion, thinking himself in love with her when he really wasn't. And oh God, this was going to be even harder than the time they were in the garage. Did she have the strength to send him away? Or, because now she had accepted the fact that she was in love with him, did she want to believe the lie and pretend that his words were true?

"_I don't think he's cursed!"_

Alfred's words suddenly began to ring through her head.

"_Trust me! As someone who knows a thing or two about 'being under a curse', I honestly don't think he is!"_

But how could that be? It just wasn't possible for a person to lose their heart like that…was it?

The music seemed to be changing, and Sybil could see out of the corner of her eye her grandmother nodding her head at a nearby footman to go after her. But her dance partner was faster, and soon had her whisked out of the room, until she realized that they were both standing on the small balcony just beyond the ballroom.

Sybil opened her mouth, but her partner brought a finger to his lips, and calmly led her towards the shadows, his body close to hers as he did what he could to block her from view to the prying eyes of Thomas. Had this been anyone else, like Larry Grey, Sybil doubted she would have remained silent. But even though she had not seen his face, she was so certain this was Tom…and she wanted to remain by his side, just a little longer to see if it were true. Not to mention, she was practically pressed against his muscular frame…his arms on either side of her shoulders, his head just look over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Thomas, who looked confused and befuddled, before grumbling something under his breath and going back inside the house. Only then, did her partner turn to face her…

Their faces were inches apart.

Sybil held her breath as she gazed up at him, his eyes so blue, despite the shadows that surrounded them. His own eyes mimicked hers, in the way they would gaze deeply into her own, before falling once more to her lips. Sybil's own lips parted, her breath shaky as she gazed at his mouth…so close…so close…

_What are you doing? You can't kiss him! This is a curse! It's all a curse! HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU!_

"Sybil…"

Her hands came to his shoulders and she pushed him away, shaking her head as tears stung her eyes. "No, no, this isn't right," she gasped, trying to be strong when it was so tempting to give in to her heart's desire.

He froze, looking back at her and shaking his own head. Without a word, he pulled his mask away and her heart stopped as his handsome face was revealed to her at last. It is him…he did come back…

And that just made it all the more painful.

"No," she moaned, shaking her head, the tears falling down her face. "No, no, no!" she suddenly started to pound her fists against his chest, and Tom staggered back slightly from the force, but he didn't stop her. He just continued to look at her, his expression mixed with sadness and frustration and something else.

Yearning.

"WHY!?" Sybil demanded. "WHY ARE YOU HERE!?"

"You _know_ why," he answered.

"But you quit! You handed in your notice and returned to Ireland—"

"Only to seek out the answers I needed. As soon as I had them, I came back here."

Seek out the answers he needed? What on earth did he mean by that? She shook her head.

"But…" she made a motion towards his clothes. He looked very handsome, in a black tie and dinner jacket; very modern, but very fine—not at all the sort of clothes a working class Irishman would wear.

Tom looked down at himself. "This may sound strange, but…these clothes come from my old life."

His _old life?_ What on earth…? She shook her head again, feeling so overwhelmed with confusion and emotion. "No, no, THIS IS WRONG!"

"I don't believe that."

"Stop it!" she was trying to shove him away, but it was so hard; she could barely feel her strength. "You're cursed! Didn't you listen to me? I told you that this was all the work of some spell!"

"It's not," he told her, taking a small step towards her again. "And loving you could _never_ be a curse."

Oh God, why did he have to say such things? Why did he have to make this so difficult?

"But it is! You took my potion—"

"I did," he answered, which shocked Sybil. He…he was acknowledging that he had taken it?

"Then…then how can you say…?"

"Because I'm immune to such potions."

WHAT!? What did he mean by that? How was he immune to…what? It made no sense!

"Well, that's not entirely true," he admitted. "There was a brief moment when the magic affected me, possibly for a few hours," he conceded. "But…it had worn off by the next day."

"Worn off…?" Sybil was so confused. How…how could he…? How did he…?

She had gone over and over that spell so many times, and there was nothing in the book that mentioned the possibility of it "wearing off" after a period of time, that only cure lay within that counter-potion she had created.

"Did you take the counter-potion?" she asked, looking at him, feelings of hope and fear mixed together.

Tom shook his head. "There was no need," he simply answered. "Because I'm not cursed—"

"STOP SAYING THAT!"

"WHAT WILL CONVINCE YOU?" he countered back, his hands gripping her shoulders and pulling her close, causing her to gasp. "I _love_ you, Sybil; of my own free will, I love you!" She gasped and felt herself begin to melt as he brought one of his hands to her cheek, his fingers reverently caressing the skin. "From your compassionate heart, to your intelligent mind, to your free spirit…it was impossible not to fall in love you. I didn't need magic to convince me; my heart _knew_ when it met yours."

She sniffled and looked up at him and felt her heart lift at his words, his thumb gently brushing away the residue of her tears. Was he in earnest? Truly? She wanted to believe it, she did, more than anything…

"And you?" he asked her, both his hands cradling her face. "Do you…do you love me?" he murmured, gazing into her eyes, trying to appear strong when she could see the fear in their depths.

What should she say? How should she answer?

_Don't ask such stupid questions! Tell him the truth!_

But was that the right thing to do? Because…because what if he was wrong? What if he was simply telling her all this so he wouldn't be "cured"? And she was still confused about his explanation, that he was "immune" to such magic. And _HOW DID HE KNOW_ anything about magic? He wasn't a warlock, surely? And yet he didn't seem upset or disbelieving when she had told him about her being a witch and him being under a spell. Or when he had stood face to face with Larry Grey, who in truth was a very powerful warlock and could certainly have caused Tom great harm if he had wielded that fiery hand at him. There was something more, something he wasn't telling her, at least not yet.

"If you don't love me…" his words brought her out of her thoughts, and she immediately began to shiver as she felt his hands leave her and he took a step away. "Then tell me. I won't question your answer," he murmured, though the pain in his eyes was most obvious. "Stay here if you honestly think they can make you happier than I can. But I meant what I said to you that day in York; that I _will_ devote every waking minute to your happiness."

"Oh Tom…" she moaned, the emotional lump in her throat difficult to swallow.

"I'd wait forever for you, Sybil; if that's what it takes, then I'll do it."

Sybil gasped, looking up at him, her heart melting even further. "I…I'm not asking for forever…" she whispered. He gave a gentle smile at this, but remained where he stood, not coming any closer…in fact, it was her own feet that were moving her forward.

_Tell him; tell him right now how you feel. You said so yourself that today is the day you will no longer be pestered and bullied and told what to do; that you'll make your own decisions! So do it, tell him, TELL HIM NOW!_

"SYBIL!"

Sybil gasped and turned her head to the angry sight of her grandmother who was glaring at her, before turning her accusatory eyes on Tom. And standing just behind Violet, smirking and looking very proud of himself, was none other than Larry.

"Get in the house at once, Sybil!" Violet growled.

"Granny—"

"AT ONCE!" she turned her harsh stare on Tom. "And _you_…you've caused enough damage to my granddaughter with your presence! You will leave or so help me, I will summon every witch and warlock in this place to lay a curse upon your head—"

"They won't work," Tom calmly interrupted.

Sybil stared at him, her eyes wide. What did he mean? Was this another immunity? How was that possible? It was as if magic couldn't work on him, or so he seemed to believe.

Larry reached out to take Sybil away and back inside, but she tugged her arm free, and without a second's hesitation, took Tom's hand in hers and gripped it tightly.

Violet frowned. "Sybil, you will release him at once—"

"No, Granny; I…" she looked up at him and held his gaze for a long moment.

_Yes…yes this is right._

"I love him," she whispered.

Violet closed her eyes and groaned.

"WHAT!?" Larry sputtered, looking incredulously back and forth between his opponent and the woman he had seriously considered marrying.

"Sybil," Violet sighed, rubbing her temples as the headache started to throb. "You're confused, you only think—"

"No! I'm not confused, if anything, my mind is quite clear! I love him, I do, and…and I'm going to marry him! I will not give him up!"

She blushed as she spoke the words, but glancing at Tom out of the corner of her eye, she saw a grateful smile spread across his face and his chest swell with pride at her statement.

"Oh Sybil, this is the curse talking! It's clearly affected you too!"

"No, Granny, you're wrong…" she looked at Tom and felt such confidence surge through her. "He's not cursed; he does love me…_truly_ loves me."

"I've heard enough," Larry spat with disgust, turning his back on the lot of them in search of a hard, stiff drink. Violet paled as she saw her granddaughter's best opportunity start to walk away.

"Mr. Grey! Please! This is all a mistake! She doesn't know what she's saying—"

"Oh Granny, for heaven's sake, stop!" Sybil groaned. She looked up at Tom, and then feeling her strength surge through her, she took his hand and encouraged him to follow her back into the ballroom, the music fading and everyone pausing in their dancing to look. "Everyone! I have an announcement!" she declared, standing firm despite the fact that she was trembling. "I…I want to thank you all for coming to Downton, and…and I do wish congratulations to my fellow witches who are celebrating their coming out season tonight with me…but…but I must confess, tonight is my last night amongst you."

A gasp went out from the room. Robert and Cora turned and stared wide-eyed at their daughter, confused and startled by her words.

However, no one was as shocked as Violet. "Sybil, what are you doing!?" she hissed.

Sybil took a deep breath. "Finally being true to myself," she murmured. She looked around the room and smiled as her eyes met those of her cousin Isobel's. "The truth is," she spoke again for the room to hear. "I'm not a very good witch. And…and I've never really cared for it much. But…I also know that I have these gifts, and it would be wrong of me to not put them to good use, so…so I've decided to leave all this behind, and dedicate myself to the art of healing as a nurse."

Isobel smiled at her words, and Tom squeezed her hand, a sign of support which she was so grateful for, because the gasps that went around the room (including her grandmother's), followed by the haughty, snobbish looks of disdain were enough to make anyone tremble. But she remained strong and firm, feeling Tom's strength surge through her as he continued to hold her hand.

"Sybil…" she turned and saw Mary and Matthew quickly approach. "What's happened? What brought this all on, and…" Mary frowned as she took notice of the way she was holding Tom's hand. "_Why_ are touching Sir Anthony's former chauffeur?"

Sybil turned her face and smiled up at him. "Because I'm going to marry him," she murmured.

Mary's face paled. _"What!?"_ she gasped. Matthew gripped her arm in what he hoped would be a calming gesture, as well as try and hold his fiancée back if she attempted to scratch the Irishman's eyes out.

However, any further questions or protests were stilled when the Grand Warlock approached, staring at Tom with wide eyes full of surprise. Tom stiffened as the man approached, and Sybil worried that perhaps the most powerful wizard in all of Britain was going to try and dispense some sort of terrible curse on the man she loved…

…Only instead, he fell to one knee and…_bowed?_

"Your highness," he murmured reverently.

Sybil's eyes widened. _Your highness!?_

Tom looked embarrassed. "Please…that's not necessary—"

"Forgive me; if I had known of your presence, I would have formally—"

"Please," Tom interrupted again, his face turning bright red. "I truly don't deserve—"

"What's going on?!" Larry demanded, approaching and interrupting again, though in all fairness, he was asking the very question everyone there was thinking.

"Get down on your knees and show some respect!" the Grand Warlock hissed at his protégée.

"WHY!?" Larry demanded. "He's just a grubby little—"

"HE IS TOM BRANSON!" the Grand Warlock growled.

Sybil gasped. The Grand Warlock knew who Tom was? Another gasp filled the room, and Sybil whipped her head around to see her grandmother staring at Tom in shock and surprise, her hand covering her mouth as a realization dawned on her. It was a completely different look to the one she had been giving Tom earlier, when she had found them on the balcony.

"Oh! Oh your highness, forgive me, I didn't know!" Violet bemoaned, quickly curtseying deeply to Tom. What on earth was going on!?

"_WHO_ is Tom Branson?" Larry demanded, still looking confused by all this bowing and scraping that was being done.

"He's royalty!" the Grand Warlock hissed, looking so embarrassed.

Royalty!? Sybil stared at Tom who looked so embarrassed.

"He's a prince!" Violet muttered at Larry Grey, before turning and smiling at Sybil, causing her granddaughter to gasp as she leapt forward and cupped her cheeks. "Oh my darling girl, well done! Marrying a prince is much better than being the wife of the next Grand Warlock," she blushed and gave a sheepish smile to the present Grand Warlock. "No offense."

"PRINCE!?" Larry growled, his hands clenching into fists and fire starting to glow within them. "PRINCE OF WHAT!?"

"Prince of the Leprechauns of course!" both Violet and the Grand Warlock shouted.

Sybil's eyes widened. Prince of…of the _Leprechauns?_

"Wait…" Robert spoke up for the first time, taking all this in. "Are you…are you telling me that Sir Anthony's former chauffeur…is a _leprechaun?"_

Violet groaned and rolled her eyes. Her son, despite the magical linage he had descended from, really could be quite thick sometimes.

"But…" Matthew looked at Tom. "But aren't leprechauns supposed to be small?"

"Well he isn't the tallest man in the room," Mary muttered.

"I _was_ a prince," Tom tried to explain, looking so embarrassed. "But I'm not anymore. I haven't been for seven years."

Violet and the Grand Warlock looked completely baffled by this. "But…but…how can that be?"

"Because…" he turned and looked at Sybil, his hand squeezing hers. "…It wasn't the life I wanted for myself."

Sybil blushed, but felt the corners of her lips lifting. Yes, she could understand that feeling very well.

"When I came of age, I had the choice to either accept the destiny I had been given, or choose the one I wanted. And…even though it would mean living a mortal life, and giving up certain luxuries, I was fine with that."

"So…so chose to be a 'chauffeur' over being a 'prince'?" Robert asked, trying to make sense of all this.

"I chose to live and work like a common man," Tom clarified. "I just happened to like driving, so being a chauffeur came easily."

"But you left that job! Sir Anthony told Edith so—good heavens, where is Edith?" Cora asked, only realizing that her middle daughter was nowhere to be seen.

"I did, but only because…Sybil helped me discover what it was I wanted to do with myself."

Sybil gasped and blushed and looked at him with curious eyes. "I…I did?"

He couldn't help but grin. "Aye; remember our talk? About politics and writing?" He reached inside his dinner jacket and produced an envelope. "There's a paper in Dublin that's agreed to let me start writing for them; not much right now—I'll have to continue working at the garage, which was where I was before coming to England to work for Sir Anthony, at least for a little longer, but…but hopefully soon…?" he looked at her, and Sybil realized then that he valued her opinion, and cared to know what she thought of all this.

She pressed herself against him and smiled. "I think it's a fine ambition," she grinned.

"So that was why you returned to Ireland then?" Matthew asked, trying to make sense of everything.

"Partially," Tom sighed. "And…and partially to make sure that…that I wasn't under the effects of Sybil's 'love potion'."

"WHAT!?" the rest of the Crawleys gasped, turning and gawking at Sybil in confusion.

Violet groaned and waved her hand. "It's a long story," she muttered.

Sybil stared up at him, biting her lip. "And…and you're not?" she asked, holding her breath.

"No love," he murmured, shaking his head. "My parents assured me what I had always believed, that we leprechauns are immune to the magic of mortals, even leprechauns like myself that choose to become mortal. Although, like I had told you, I was 'momentarily' enchanted because of my mortality, but it didn't last—in fact, it only made it all the more obvious what I was feeling."

Sybil gazed at him and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Of course! It made sense now! The love potion she had created; the magic was to cause the one who received it to "open their eyes" to that which they desired. Tom was right; it hadn't _made him_ fall in love with her…it just made him _realize_ it perhaps a little sooner than normal. Which also explained out the counter-potion had worked on Alfred! It restored Alfred to his former self, making him human once more! So truly…

"Then…then you _really do_ love me," she whispered, staring up at him with tears in her eyes, though unlike before, there was no sadness to be felt, only joy and relief.

Tom chuckled, and not caring that people were looking at them, gathered her in his arms and pulled her against him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, love."

Sybil laughed, and then caused everyone to gasp as she threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply, right there in the middle of the All Hallows Eve ball, in front of her the Grand Warlock, her family, and every aristocratic witch in all of Britain. Tom caught her, smiling against her lips, and quickly deepened the kiss, his tongue sneaking out and tasting hers, his strong arms lifting her off the ground, her feet dangling slightly, but she didn't care. She moaned against his mouth, feeling so happy.

"I'd say this calls for a toast!" rang out a shrill American voice, and soon Martha was bursting her way to the center of the ballroom, grinning like the Cheshire cat. She turned to the nearest footman to motion for him to bring her a drink, but paused when she recognized the tall, lanky, ginger-haired man. _"YOU!?"_

Alfred gulped…and then turned and ran before Martha could recast her spell.

* * *

_Four years later…_

Tom entered the tiny Dublin flat, a special box hidden within his coat. "Sybil?" he called out, the smell of cake wafting through the air.

"We're in the kitchen!" she called back, and Tom smiled, carefully setting the box down and draping his coat over it, before moving to the very room where his wife and daughter resided. Sybil looked up from the cake she was frosting, smiling at her husband. "Da's home," she murmured to the little girl, who clapped her hands, grinning broadly.

"Happy birthday my darlin'," Tom grinned, moving first to his daughter and kissing her downy head, before going to his wife, whose lips were already lifted in anticipation for his kiss. "You've got some frosting on you," Tom murmured, leaning in and letting his tongue dart out to catch it at the corner of her mouth.

"Well aren't I lucky that I have you here to take care of it?" she flirted back, earning a soft growl of approval from her husband.

"Whatever you don't use on the cake, save it for later," he whispered in her ear, earning a pleasured shiver from his wife.

"Present, Da?"

Tom lifted his head and grinned at the little girl. "What makes you think I got you a present?" he asked, trying to sound as if he had no idea to what she was referring.

"Oh don't tease her, Tom," Sybil reprimanded with a light swat to his chest.

Tom chuckled and scooped up his daughter. He was about to take her to the corridor where he had left the box, when he saw the opened envelope on the kitchen table, recognizing the address from Downton Abbey. "News from your family?"

Sybil nodded, smiling. "Mary's pregnant again. She's hoping for a girl this time," Sybil explained. "And both Edith and Anthony thanked us for the lovely anniversary present we sent last month."

Sybil smiled as she thought her sisters, and how their lives had changed. Apparently her spell to "set everything in order" had done a little more than just mere cleaning. If anything, it had opened the eyes to the truth for both her sisters…and the future of Downton.

Apparently, Cousin Patrick _wasn't_ a Crawley after all! His real name was Patrick Gordon, the offspring of a love affair between his mother and the gardener of all people! The truth had been discovered shortly after Patrick returned from Canada, when a Mr. Peter Gordon, Patrick's half-brother from his birth father, stepped forth to reveal the whole truth that had been learned on his father's deathbed. The old gardener's story was confirmed by Patrick's mother, who wept with embarrassment when confronted. Patrick was scandalized, and once again fled the country, hoping to take his Canadian railway investment elsewhere and make a new start for himself. It soon became obvious that if Patrick was no longer Robert's heir…that meant it belonged to Matthew.

…Which meant that Mary's wish to become the next Countess of Grantham, without having to sacrifice her love and desire to marry Matthew, came true.

As for Edith, she had gone outside on the night of that fateful All Hallows Eve ball, feeling sad that she had no dance partner…only to find Sir Anthony standing outside, looking worried about what to do. He hadn't been invited, and it would be terribly rude to just…appear like this, but at the same time, he couldn't stop thinking about Edith, he was completely smitten, he confessed, and it was in that moment Edith finally admitted that yes, Anthony was ten times the man that Patrick ever could be, and without a moment's hesitation, went into the older gentleman's arms, and kissed him passionately, right there on the front steps of Downton Abbey.

Six months later, all three Crawley sisters celebrated a unique triple wedding, the kind that no one had ever seen, and would no doubt be talking about for years to come.

Even though Violet wasn't thrilled with her granddaughter's decision to become a nurse and use all her magical abilities for such "lowly work", she didn't stop her. After all, even though Tom insisted he was no longer a prince, Violet still spoke of her youngest granddaughter "married to magical royalty". She and Tom settled in Dublin, where he now worked as a full-time journalist and she as a nurse. Three months after their marriage, Sybil joyfully discovered she was pregnant, and nine months later, gave birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl.

…Who just so happened to show some "magical abilities" of her own, despite her extremely young age (no doubt thanks to the fact that she was the daughter of _both_ a witch and a leprechaun).

"KITTY!" Saoirse squealed, causing Sybil to lift her head from the birthday cake and look out of the kitchen, watching as Tom held a squirming orange kitten, which their daughter was delicately petting.

"Good heavens," Sybil murmured. "That reminds me of Alfred!"

"It's not him, I assure you, love," Tom chuckled. "Last I heard, both he and his American lass are living happily in London, and are still human."

"For the time being," Sybil muttered, shaking her head. So the American witch who had cast the spell that transformed Alfred into a cat was none other than her own grandmother. And the black cat that had traveled with her was none other than Alfred's love, the lady's maid with whom he had been caught "canoodling", Miss Reed. Sybil begged her grandmother not to change Alfred back, promising that he had learned his lesson, to which Martha groaned and rolled her eyes, but conceded the point. And because she was feeling extra generous, given Sybil's engagement news, she even transformed Reed back to her human form.

"So what will we call her?" Tom asked his daughter, carefully handling the kitten to the child.

Saoirse gazed into the cat's eyes for a long moment, as if…reading something there. Sybil's brow furrowed as she watched her daughter, wondering once again just how deep her magical abilities lay. There was no doubt Saoirse would become the next Crawley witch, and because she was showing so much potential now, and a mere three years of age, Violet saw no reason to delay in waiting until she turned ten to start her magical training.

"Gwen!" Saoirse announced, petting the kitten.

"Gwen?" Sybil asked, looking at the cat. "That's a very interesting name; why that one my love?"

Saoirse grinned up at her mother, before winking at the cat. "Because that's what she told me!"

**The End...?**


End file.
